Ah! It's that time again when I start getting an itch in my feet. This happens usually every six months. Sometimes I survive it and stop myself from paying attention to it. But most of the times, I just put on my sneakers and run. Look for another job, plan another impulsive getaway, splurge madly, look for a new love - search for that different kind of adventure.
This time, I want a new job. A better, more responsible, more creative, more paying job. Don't we all? I know I can either get job satisfaction or moolah. So, half a year I try the money, the other half I sip coffee and pretend to be creatively spent.
About the getaway, I think it's time for that too. The city gets to me after a while. So, just pack your bags, give the urban structures a haughty look and run. But like a dog who's tired of roaming the streets and peeing on strangers' cars, I get back, tail in my legs, back home.
When I was 22, my dad used to say, "You are an escapist." I would look at him in post teenage rebellion and say, "Hah. Better an escapist than a conformist. You're just a conformist because you don't have the energy to escape." He once said, "When you reach my age, you'll learn to conform." I said, "I never will."
I haven't. But I'm learning to balance the two. I know now what my dad meant. When he was young, he read Kafka, and De Maurier. Now he watches the news and reads racy thrillers. Would I be reading gossip magazines when I'm 60? Maybe. It's quite possible. Age does things to us. I'm only 27 now, but I already feel the change.
I'm not willing to conform. But I don't want to be a loony, ants-in-my-pants (someone once called me that. I find the imagery very funny, but not apt for me) quitter all my life. Someday I'll stand still, like an old oak tree and weather gracefully. A rolling stone gathers no moss, but it certainly slows down after a while. Even nature can't refute that.