I’m a planner. A planner with a boyfriend who throws plans to the wind and expects to simply remember everything that has happened, is happening, or will happen in his life. It is here that we differ.
Today I read a Marie Claire article titled “The New Male Mid-Life Crisis” about the current fad for men to have a silly “quarter life” crisis (or third of life, or mid-life, or fifth of life —fifth of life? That’s your cue to fill my glass).
The article opens and closes with a man who cannot decide whether or not to leave his very successful girlfriend because he cannot decide if, indeed, he’s having a CRISIS.
IS THIS WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO LOOK FORWARD TO?
So, I’m supposed to get my first job, then my dream job, then move up the ladder to my dream position, while saving the children, finding a cure for AIDS, and getting in a daily workout before 6 a.m. — while he, the non-planner, type-B personified, stops to smell the roses and has a fucking crisis.
Take my name off that list.
