Editor's note: I started this post on Tuesday and am only now finishing it and posting it. Apologies for the delay in weekend reporting!
This past weekend, the Irishman and I spent an enjoyable Sunday in Salisbury where some of his uni friends as well as friends of theirs who have become our friends as well. They, and we, and another uni friend who lives in Portsmouth spent the day bouncing babies and eating a lovely Sunday roast in front of a rather large fire in an old country pub while drinking entirely too much wine. When it came time for us to bundle up and head to the train for our return to London, I had one of those moments of desperation that equates, roughly, with "what am I doing with my life". Why am I busting my butt to earn a decent wage to afford my centrally located shoebox apartment? Why am I risking breaking my ankle tottering around in shoe-boots on ice in order to look fashion-fierce in an industry focused on image? Why am I always worried about things that, when the weekend comes, always seem so inconsequential? WHY DON'T I HAVE A DOG?!
Sometimes when I come back from being a Country Cat, hanging out in a small village and enjoying the simple pleasures of food, friends, and family, I start to think about whether I may be approaching the time when I need to make the life changes that scare me the most: moving out of the city, rethinking my career, essentially settling down. Those decisions feel like such a failure to someone like me who has spent most of my adult life stomping through the windy corridors of big international cities with reckless abandon. To admit to myself that I might not want to live like that anymore is absolutely terrifying - it's what I know and [I thought] I love. But maybe it's not enough anymore?
Mom-Mom said something particularly interesting to me about all of this nonsense over the summer; she asked me, and I quote: "when are you going to stop running around wasting time and settle down and start living your life?" She of course was referencing getting married and having babies and at the time, I told her that I was in fact living my life and that I liked it at the moment thankyouverymuch. But recently I had an epiphany and it dawned on me just what she was asking me and I realized that I don't really have the answer. Because saying to myself that having the right Chanel nail polish isn't actually living is a pretty big statement and blows a big hole in the identity I've fashioned for myself up to now. Going further and asking myself what I'm building and creating and making with my life right now, besides a very fashionable collection of insensible footwear, deepens the hole and makes me question whether I'm a City Cat after all.
Yikes. How deep! Weekend afternoons in the country aren't supposed to be so thought-provoking! But to be honest, it's probably been a long time coming. I'm rapidly approaching 30 (deep breath, exhale) and I suppose all people start to review their current life-states at that point. So I'm going to roll with it, and see where it leads me. I'm not sure whether it will be outside of the M25, but I suspect it may lead to more cooking, more moderation, and more realistic expectations of who and what I want to be.
But hopefully still some gorgeously in-sensible shoes.