Screw the bucket list

At work the other day some coworkers were talking about a writing assignment (they take a creative writing class together) about their respective bucket lists. Someone asked me if I had one. I wasn't sure how to answer. I used to have one, but when my brain turned my life on its head, two things changed forever. First, I finally understood that I had the power to pull the plug whenever I deemed it to suit me best, so having a bucket list wasn't all that relevant anymore. I could tailor my lifespan to my own time schedule.

My second thought was that many of the things I thought I would do in my life just weren't going to happen. It was so cliche. My life hadn't turned out the way I planned at all.

When I was a teenager, I thought I would take time off after high school, travel, and then eventually attend college and become a television producer. My travel plans included Europe, Turkey, Central Asia, India, Nepal, Sri Lanka, New Zealand (but not Australia), and anyplace that was known for exquisite fiber arts. And Madagascar (I used to bake and I used vanilla from there, so it seemed especially exotic).

In addition to travel, I thought I would write something worth reading, a magazine column, perhaps. I desperately wanted to join the Peace Corps--a dream I only gave up on recently. No bipolar, asthmatic volunteers allowed.

I was absolutely madly in love with the idea of owning my own home. I dreamed of an old home--Victorian, turn-of-the-century, or 1920's Craftsman that I could renovate and restore over the course of many years. A garden was a must. I planned on doing all of the rehab work myself because I wanted to learn the skills my father never taught me but would have if I weren't born female. I used to design floor plans and imagine paint colors whenever I passed a house that reminded me of the one in my head. No charming old home is complete without refinished vintage furniture, and I wanted to learn everything about that.

I was adamantly opposed to three things: Working a mainstream office job, getting married, and having children. Somewhere in the basement of my house there are reams of journal writings about these three things and why I wanted to avoid them at all costs. Shortly before I graduated from college, I was in the car with my friend Jeff, traveling along on one of the parkways on Long Island when we passed a series of identical, shiny, trapezoidal office buildings. They were smooth and lifeless. We both stopped talking. A minute later, Jeff said, "Just shoot me if I end up someplace like that and I'll do the same for you."

I thought I would also become a travel photographer one day. I wanted my own darkroom and I wanted to excel at photography. And textile design. And interior design. And something exciting.

None of that happened. I did learn to fly hot air balloons, though. I met lots of stunt people and special effects techs. I didn't make it to home ownership until was over 40 and when I got there, it was to move into a generic 1955 ranch house. I made it to 40 states, so far. I never got to join the Peace Corps or travel out of the country after the age of 18. I don't even have a passport and I don't see any need to get one anytime soon. Changing time zones wreaks havoc on my BP. All of the medications I take are taking a toll on my gut. These are not good travel conditions.

I delved into exercise, especially long, long bike rides--probably the reason for my pudendal nerve damage. My brother has it, too, and he got it the same way. I own four bicycles, but I can't bear to sell them. It's such an act of finality and defeat.

I've hit my mid-life crisis. I'm so bored, I cry. The biggest problem is that I need a new dream and I'm coming up blank. My life is boring, I am bored. I've become mundane--the biggest failure in my book.