13 years ago, I was a deeply insecure 27-year-old walking home from a very good job that I hated with every inch of my being. I was sobbing into the phone to my best friend Dave, who was at Home Depot with his wife.
“I’m lost,” I wept, “I’m exhausted. I don’t want this kind of life and I don’t know how to change it.”
In the background, I could hear his lovely Megan asking how I was doing and Dave stuttering to find a way to say “deeply unwell” without offending me.
But now look at me! I’m a slightly-less insecure 40-year-old who now only calls Dave crying when I can’t figure out something that iOS called an intuitive update.
I have a life that I love, and work that doesn’t make me envious of city workers tamping down asphalt into potholes (that’s not a joke, I used to look out the window of my office at the people filling potholes and envy how satisfied they must feel at the end of the workday, seeing a smooth road).
Every part of my current life can be traced back to the death of my hu…