in a whirlwind of cleaning today, I found a journal of mine from 2003..
"Everytime I write "1978", I feel a little worse. Twenty-five years. A little closer to thirty. Thirty, I know, is not old. But neither is forty, I suspect, when you're thirty-five and looking at forty racing towards you. My mother had me a thirty-one, my big sister three years earlier.. Yes, I know, that was 1975, but these are my standards, my measuring stick. The backwards calculations are something one must avoid - if you start at even thirty-five with my first child, I pretty much have to meet my husband-to-be today. Now, I am a rational human being and do realize that I am being ridiculous. The source of this calculating madness is my sister's impending wedding. I don't need a psych degree to figure that out.
Okay, so, the basic guides to measuring success - work, home, family, friends. I have no job. Well, I have a job, it just doesnt start for a week and I haven't worked for a month so I am now a professional magazine reader/barnes and noble patron/happy hour attendee/taxi driver for corporate intern boyfriend. My profession is retail management. I am a store manager, officially, or will be next week,. THe retail world is madness - cat fighting, two-faced, overly emotional madness. An industry consisting almost entirely of twenty to thirty something females and gay males with shopping addictions. Me, who once aspired to be a lawyer for the ACLU, helping to advance capitalism and greed. And I one wrote a thesis on Marxism and its potential applications to the modern economy..in a positive light. What a poser I am."
To be continued...