It was a good one, the one I left behind. The life, I mean. At times I think there must be something wrong with me, something serious. Because what sane person leaves a six-figure salary to be paid by single digits by the hour? In the world I grew up in, happiness is linked to success and success is linked to money but despite all the numbers piling up in my chequing account, I seemed to be some kind of anomaly to the equation. I was inconsolably unhappy, living a sort of half-life really, a type of purgatory or middle-space void of meaning and I couldn’t figure out what direction to move in. I just knew the direction had to be out. Like so many millennials before me, I was having an existential crisis in the most narcissistic way possible; I had everything a girl could want and somehow it meant nothing to me. I realize this is incredibly selfish. It’s nothing short of Elizabeth Gilbert’s quest for self-actualization using pasta and prayer as a means to an end and I know a lot of people hated how much her narrative was all about HER. And now I’m all about ME. But here’s the thing- where’s the fault in that? We were born into a privileged generation thanks to the sacrifices of generations before us and this privilege should not be wasted on living an easy life that makes you unhappy. Privilege is to be able to live the life you actually want and what I wanted was to stop living for the weekend. Weekend Warriors. Sunday Funday. Great alliterations that are more tragic than Shakespeare. Let’s think about this for a moment. On average, if you’re lucky enough to grow old, you’ll live to be 75. If you do the math, that gives you precisely 3900 Saturdays. That is a finite number. 3900. 3899. Tick. Tock. You can leave the good ones behind. It can be good, great even, but if it’s not the life you dreamed for yourself, it’s time to make like Bocelli and say goodbye.
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