putty-esque stream of consciousness during a work break.

The other day, I read about the telling signs of a pre-midlife midlife crisis.

Granted, most of the signs are actually part of the ongoing collective human experience within our own deranged domes of semi-consciousness. But hey, there is an admittedly nice ring to, "I'm having a pre-midlife midlife crisis." rather than a plain ol',

"I think I'm having a reoccurring panic attack."

Yesterday, two clients yelled at me for 1. not being the person they wanted to speak with (aka, someone with "power"), and 2. the fact they have paid an exorbitant amount of money for the utmost professional service, and they are still stuck speaking to the same chump (aka, back to point 1). That's customer service for you.

There is a sense of beauty in knowing you are just one tirade away from becoming the Hindenburg disaster. The spark that caused the explosion. The straw that broke the pissed off camel's back. Only to realize, when you feel you've reached your limit, your willpower is made of Silly Putty instead of iron; it is flexible, sticky, and just when you thought you were on the last strand, nope, guess what, there is more putty.

You don't fully explode. You don't fully break. You keep going-- a giant balloon that is slowly deflating but still afloat, a camel that spits at people but keeps carrying its load.

I wake up feeling a nerve of rage tangled around my heart. Then, after some thought and remembering the tips from that ridiculous self-help book, I acknowledge it isn't actually rage.

It is longing.

I am so proud and so happy for many people I care about and their accomplishments. I just wish those things were happening to me as well, in their own way, on their own time. I'm happy for others, and just want to be happy for myself as well, but not even sure where to start.

Apparently, that is one of the signs of a pre-midlife midlife crisis, so go figure.

Who knows, maybe tomorrow I will quit both jobs and start selling homemade jelly rolls.

The possibilities are endless, and somehow, increasingly finite.