When milk spoils, it turns into a putrid mess of funk that no one wants to deal with.
It stinks; the carton bloats. The thought of unscrewing the lid to pour what is left of an otherwise lovely compliment to my morning cereal turns my stomach quicker than most other disgusting things. I do my best to utilize every drop prior to its demise, but with life getting in the way of a normal eating schedule, I often fail. So there is sits – raunchy and ready to be discarded.
I have known for quite some time that I, too, have an expiration date – thankfully I don’t bloat, though. Two years seems to be the magic time line, imprinted on my soul as a clear warning that things will get tricky soon, and the necessity to deal with whatever situation is about to be flushed down the proverbial sink is on the horizon. I have been able to sense it for as long as I can remember – feeling the same as that poor turned milk. Funky, in the worst way.
My career is a perfect example of my need to move on past this critical two year period. I have not been in the same position longer than that, ever, although I will say I have stayed with the same firm for a few months past, when necessary. As I approach the two year mark with this last endeavor, I start to engage in potentially rot-worthy thoughts. What’s around the corner? Am I supposed to stay or is it time to go? Is this the “one” that will exceed my natural time frame? I am admittedly unsure for this particular journey, but as the weeks slip away, I am violently reminded that seasons of change come for me, in big, dramatic, emotional waves.
And I am upon one of those seasons, yet again. I have been since the beginning of this year, without acknowledging it until recently. Except this season does not seem to be for one specific life event, but instead is a shift in every aspect of my life. Relationship, career, location, health, awareness. The whole shebang – I am craving big, dramatic, emotional change.
It has been an interesting ride up until this point, on all fronts, respectively. Some have been easier than others, and some have challenged me beyond what I thought I would ever be capable of handling. It is quite possible I have yet to handle any of it, but here I sit, still breathing and still moving, as much as I want to let it all go. I’ve often wondered if any other human gets as bored or as uncomfortable or as stagnant as I do, and so systematically that at month 23, shit gets ridiculous.
A peach in a sea of potatoes – an odd ball struggling to make sense of happenings that simply aren’t meant to have logical meaning. Potatoes aren’t affected. Only the peach. Left with bruises and dents, visible to everyone on the outside; terribly painful on the inside. I want to run, but here I sit, still breathing and still moving.
My two year warning comes with such a fervor it is impossible to ignore. At times, I can’t determine if it is something I create, because I am used to shifting at this point, or if it is truly an intuitive call to action. I am uncomfortable because I actually need change; I am uncomfortable because I think I should be. A coin toss seems to be the only viable determinant in this plight – leave it to probability, instead of my slowly rotting gut. Yeah, that sounds about right.
As another day rushes by, and more questions are formed, rather than the needed answers, I retreat inward. Quiet, dangerously depressed and oppressively cut off from the potatoes who want and need my attention. They seem to never expire, and a bruised peach envies that super power. So shutting down is the only choice I feel comfortable with, digging in to the boredom/discomfort/discontentment to figure out what exactly is happening and what exactly is needed to move into my new season, whatever that looks like.
A peach, in a sea of potatoes, I sit, rotting. Raunchy, and ready to be discarded.