Dress: Old Navy

Cardigan: Loft

Belt: Target

Shoes: TOMS

Earrings: Old Navy

I was rereading some old posts and noticed how often I mention that my work days are hard or tough or trying in some way. There are few people in the world who can say that their occupations are stressless, worry-free, ideal. While I’m not one obviously, I also don’t want to imply that my professional life is somehow abysmal: in my full-time gig, I’m lucky to work in my favorite little city, learning its ins and outs, and talking to people everyday about it; in my side job, I engage with people at a theatre — a place where they are actively partaking in hours of social make-believe. Considering I’m not-yet-30, I would say those are pretty sweet deals.

That said, here’s the rehearsed line: “yesterday was a hard day.” We had a huge work event in the high heat of August. There were unclear expectations, a lot of problems to resolve on the spot, and some unkind actions. I came home — hot, sticky, tired, achy — took a bath, drank a glass of wine and cried. It was one of the hardest work days I’ve ever experienced.

As I’m about to turn 30, I’ve been thinking of the changes my life should take. (In some weird, macabre way, when I was a child, I never thought I would live to 20, let alone 30, imagining I would die young, tragically, romantically. Too much Poe and Shakespeare for me, I suppose.) I’ve considered the professional, the financial, the familial, the physical; yesterday’s event, though, veered me to the hardest needs and wants, goals and dreams to consider — the emotional, the personal, the intellectual. “What type of person do I want to be?” “What lessons have gone unlearned thusfar?” “How will I be remembered when I’m gone?”

I have an unhealthy work-life balance, as in, there is no balance. I work a lot — for ten months a year, I average 50-60 hour work weeks — and I let everything else slide. Friendships have withered, my exercise routine is null, and I’m left tired and dull feeling so often. That’s not who I want to be, nor is that how I want others to think or remember me, the workhorse with no life. Yesterday truly made me think: is this it? Is this all I have to hold on to — this beat, extinguished feeling? I reflected back to this window when I was 25 when life was perfect: I worked a full-time and a part-time job; ran several times a week; took poetry writing classes; organized a high school reunion with old friends; and courted B by walking around the city. There was hope and happy exhaustion. And that’s want I want again.

While this is mainly a fashion blog, over the next few months, I’me endeavoring to share my “30th birthday resolutions:” the aspirations I’m hoping to incorporate as I close one chapter to open another.