Undoubtedly, most of you took a gander at this article today (http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/thirty-three-happiest-age-says-study-193446415.html) while trying desperately to ignore how much you hate the sound of your boss’s voice, or the inane questions of the guy who sits across from you. It didn’t work, of course, but it was a temporary respite, I’m sure.
I read this in my usual post-sanity/post-employment/post-contributing member of society location: my couch (while occasionally glancing up at the window to judge whether or not I’m motivated enough to go to the park). One thing came immediately to mind: I am so screwed.
You see, if you are under 33 and miserable, this article should bring you hope. Apparently, you are not yet secure enough to truly be happy. Also, if you thought you were happy, this study would beg to differ. Still, that’s all good news for you. If you are actually 33 and experiencing some mild cases of joy, but with overwhelming bouts of dissatisfaction, that’s ok. You’ve just crossed the milestone and are poised for greatness while still having the physical ability to enjoy your life. Kudos.
And then…there are the rest of us. Poor bastards. Evidently, we hit our strides 10 years ago: we supposedly had confidence, skill and reached a sexual peak. Swell. Sadly, though, I don’t remember any of that actually happening. Did you guys stride? Was I sidelined reading a book somewhere? Could be. It would be like me to miss my own peaking because I was reading about someone else’s. Still, I feel like I would have noticed it.
What now? Have I missed the happy boat? I’m 10 years post-happiest age, and I don’t remember content. I’m not fulfilled or secure and my accomplishments seem to be getting smaller as I gaze back at them in the rearview mirror. The biggest upside I can find is that I have great shoes.
Well…that’s something, I suppose.
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