Most of my earliest memories as a child were things that would make most people faint. No seriously, you have no idea. Life was adventurous to say the least for little 0-10 year old me. Since then I’ve found that things get significantly more boring until one day you’re being called an “adult”, you eat goat cheese and craisin salads for lunch and every five minutes someone’s yelling at you for not being responsible enough. Lame, huh? 

We all have this Peter Pan fantasy that we’re never going to grow up and be like (*gasp*) our parents. But, in reality, we probably will. I mean what else is there to do? The average, immature, still-living-the-glory-days-even-though-i’m-36 year old isn’t exactly someone we aspire to be (I sincerely hope). So I suppose the question is, can we be somewhere in between? Can we somehow find a way to keep our living in a tree-house, making blanket forts and eating ice cream for breakfast ideals into the dreaded years of mid-life dullness? 

I have absolutely no idea.

I’ve for sure seen some couples who have this figured out, the ones who actually took all that rubbish advice about “doing what makes you happy, not what makes you rich.” And for them, it worked! Is it more about having the guts to admit what makes us really happy?

Now this is getting pretty long and most of you are waiting for the juicy bits where I divulge my romantic life in full and tell you I’ve really been working for the CIA for the past 5 years. 

Sorry, please click the little red button in the top right hand corner of your screen, the most adventurous thing I’ve done in the past week is choose Mountain Dew instead of Ginger Ale.

But honestly, what would happen if we all just did what we actually wanted to? If the people who loved to read became happy simple librarians or the jocks who live and breathe football never had to second guess making it to the NFL? I bet you my left sock good things would come of it. 

Somehow we’re all trapped in this “what makes me successful” mindset, but what we really should be looking at, is “what makes me happy?” Is it less selfish to be miserable and well-off than to be happy and not living in Wayne manor? I think not.



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