Thanks for the Midlife Crisis, Hub Pages!

By Lisa Kroulik © April 2, 2011

Thanks a lot, Hub Pages. Before you came waltzing into my life six weeks ago, I was content with the status quo. You know, rise at 5 am every day, punch a clock at 6:30, enter the same data 750 times, punch clock again, drive home, and spend evening with family. The last part of this equation is still lovely, but the rest of it, not so much.

You see, you reignited my passion for writing that was first sparked in 1976 or so, but had lain dormant since the Reagan administration. They say you never forget your first love. How true that is. Just hearing the word brings a smile to my face, energy to my body and thoughts tumbling through my mind faster than I can get them to the word processor.

Mrs. Fisher was actually the first person to blame. She was the rotund, bun-wearing third grade teacher who saw something special in the childish prose I turned in. It caught her eye so much that she assigned more writing assignments to the class than she needed to, just to see what my eight-year-old mind would come up with. I'm sure the other 25 or so kids really appreciated that.

I could indulge my passion more as a child. It was cute then, and I didn't have any bills to pay. While other kids were playing Pacman and Pong, there I sat in my room typing stories with my manual typewriter. I was an oddity, but my teachers, family and friends always seemed to enjoy the end result.

I went as far as I could with this writing gig, taking it to the newspaper and magazine staff of community college before real life stepped in and demanded responsibility and a ho-hum existence. I tried to forget that I ever said “I love this!” when taking a page of scribbled notes and turning it into my own version of a literary masterpiece. Exhilaration? Nah, must have been my imagination.

So what did I do instead? Bounced from one dead-end entry level job to another, with a few years of self-employment thrown in between them. I had the right idea on that last one, but the wrong venue, so back to the workaday world I went. I had succumbed to the notion that I needed to grow up, hold down a job, and follow the normal life script. But the whole climb the company ladder thing has never been for me. I tried, failed, and was driven into your arms out of utter frustration.

And now? The job I had tolerated for nearly three years and was grateful to have has become beyond excruciatingly boring. It is pure torture just to arrive there each day, because all I want to do is stay home and write. You opened the dam and I can't push the water back because I am drowning in it. Writing is my first and truest love, and the pain of being apart for 25 years has me in a funk I never expected to be in.

What if this really is my purpose and I am wasting my life typing forms all day? Why can't I make a living doing what I love? How did I get to be 43 years old so quickly? What if God has orchestrated events so that my existentialist crisis is right where I am supposed to be? Why did He give me these talents and this desire? How do I explain to Him why I wasted them?

See what you have done to me, Hub Pages? I have exactly ten days to figure this thing out before I am due back at work. I supposed I will thank you for this torture one day, but at this moment, all I can see are the minutes of my life ticking away. That and the Wikipedia definition of existentialist crisis: This can occur when the answers to the questions about the meaning and purpose of life (as well as our place in it) no longer provide satisfaction, direction or peace of mind.

And here I thought I was just signing up for a website to have some fun.