Quarter Life Crisis

As I savor the flavor of airport TCBY yogurt, the rich dutch chocolate swirled with vanilla bean slowly slipping down my parched throat, I am at the same time struggling to swallow a scream which threatens to emerge from said throat. Panic is setting in. Crisis chic is my ensemble de jour, and I am wearing it fully accessorized. Waiting in the Phoenix Airport, my resting point between the sure shores of Cali and the concrete jungle of NYC, I become fully aware that this past week's journey back west has been more than a celebration of my twenty-something years on earth. What began as a mere jaunt down the plant-lined paths of memory lane has turned into a catalyst of an experience: a perusal of the past forcing an about face to the future.

A quarter life crisis.

As an adolescent, I always found such comfort in the knowledge that I was fully certain of what I wanted to be "when I grow up". A small pitying smile played on my lips while fellow friends dabbled in General Education, dropping this major for that, living on a whim and a prayer. "Not I!" said the sheltered, Disney fed and bred drama queen. "Broadway or Bust" was the mantra engrained on my still developing brain, and this sureness (combined with a deadly fear of failure) led my life to revolve around a certain but simple reality. One goal, one path, one option, one... singular sensation. Trapped in my "one"-ness, suffocated and scared.

And then I saw the world.

Well, bits and pieces of it. A sampler platter, a tapas plate, a tantalizing appetizer of the human existence outside of myself. All at once fascinating, vibrant, stunning, terrifying, and mine for the conquering. I found myself haggling with petite (but persistent!) proprietresses in the markets of Kowloon, Hong Kong. Mountain biking through the hilly terrain in Skagway, Alaska, cross rickety railroad ties bordering seaplane runways. Panamanian baskets, Costa Rican bowls, Florentine paintings, Murano glassware- collecting the entities designated for a future place of prominence in the Museum de la Melody’s Casa. Preparing for the ultimate “Life on Land”, I knew an inevitable return to the daily grind was to be expected. There was a time I embraced that notion, lived for the idea of normalcy.

And then I came “home”.

Daily life became daily routine became daily depression. The activities I once so looked forward to (Grocery store shopping! Live television!) became monotonous, mundane, and left me feeling hollow. After an AM spent waiting in a cramped holding room with 300 carbon copy chorus cuties only to kick-ball-change my way to a night job catering to the whims of entitled Upper West Siders, all that would cycle through my dead-tired mind was a re-run movie entitled “A Year Ago Today”, starring moi.

“A Year Ago Today: I was sitting on a dock in Venice, sipping wine from a bottle as gondoliers drifted by, a song on their lips and a suave smile melting my heart.”

“A Year Ago Today: I was zip-lining through the Costa Rican rain forest, repelling down a cliffside, and diving into hidden lagoons, followed by a feast of black beans and plantains.”

“A Year Ago Today: I was visiting the Blue Mosque of Istanbul, munching on candy-coated almonds at the Spice Market, gazing upon piles of ancient rugs, tinted lamps en masse, and draped silk scarves, a tear in my eye as the call the prayer commenced.”

A year ago today, I knew me. Now, I wander the urban streets of Manhattan in a haze of confusion. Who am I, and where do I fit into this landscape? I gaze upon gals, glamorous and girly, gregariously pursuing “the dream” day in and day out, the marquees and city lights twinkling off their kohl lined eyes. I am the UFO, an unidentified foreign object, un-relatable female oddity, an imposter among show tune spouting, name-dropping die-hards.

Of this I am sure: I suffer from an extreme case of Wander Lust. Symptoms: A never-ceasing desire to be on the move, exploring unfamiliar territory with life in luggage and lovingly creased guidebook in back pocket. Side Affects: a loss of ability to set down roots, create lasting relationships, and quit envying Samantha Brown.

So the question becomes thus: How do I find the cure?

Let the quarter life crisis continue…