I am twenty-six years old. I live a life that is probably not very different than yours. Most days I get up to an alarm clock. I’m not a morning person. Sleeping late is my favorite hobby.
I work in an office. I’m an administrative assistant. I like my job. I like my days off better.
I rent a place in a nice suburban town. I live alone. Some days I enjoy the isolation quite a lot. Other days, not so much.
I’m very shy. I don’t have much of a social life. I do have a boyfriend, Jack. We’ve been together almost two years now. I have come to decide that he is someone I could spend the rest of my life with. Being that he is a man, I doubt that the same thought has yet crossed his mind.
Jack owns a small house near a lake. He has an endless list of renovations he wants to do to it. I help out when I can. I paint his walls. Twelve months later, he knocks them down.
I get annoyed by the same things that bother most people – traffic jams, grocery shopping, people that say “I’m well” instead “I’m good” just to assert intellectual superiority. Even so, I smile a lot. People find it charming.
I have a pretty typical life, I guess. My mother keeps asking me if I’m happy. I don’t know how to answer. I say, “Sure.”
I say, “Sure,” but I feel like I’m waiting for something. Something to happen. Something just around the corner.
Hell if I know what.
