It's Almost Time

Currently I'm in the middle of trying to complete my MBA thesis class, realizing that in a short four and a half weeks I'll be putting an end to a major source of stress in my life.  Anyone who has gone through the rigors of a Master's program knows what I'm talking about.  The crazy thing is that I've been chugging along one class at a time, instead of the "normal" two courses at a time, and I still feel as though I'm carrying the workload of a full-time undergraduate student.  In roughly four and a half weeks, I will have a portion of my life back.  There will be more time for family, for friends, for that recently acquired freelance writing gig, for enjoying life.  The second crazy thing is that I'm thinking of putting myself through this again.  Is there some sort of super competitive, always have to be striving, overly ambitious streak within my DNA that compels me to do this?  Maybe I really can't ever be truly satisfied with the state of "what is."

I'm not really questioning the actions that I'm about to attempt.  The replacement Dell ink cartridges arrived yesterday.  I'm now ready to print out those writing samples and essays, request transcripts, hit up some of my MBA profs for letters of recommendation, and hit the "send application" button on those three online applications.  A good high school friend, whom I now realize is a fellow HSP, told me several weeks ago that I wouldn't feel fulfilled until I tried to pursue my dream.  She told me that I have to go down this path in order to know.  I know she's right.  She's been right about a lot of things, even when they didn't always make sense or scream out what was obviously beneath the surface. 

I'm not scared of potential change.  I'm scared of not changing enough.  This certainly isn't the only way to try to become a writer.  But it's a familiar one-the arena of academic rigor.  The arena of fighting to stay afloat by working too hard.  The arena of attempting to burn the candle at both ends, as my dad used to say.  He told me at nineteen that you can't do that forever.  I now sometimes wish I had the sense to listen to those words.  In a few weeks, I'll be 34, but I'm sure my "real" age is more along the lines of 54. 

So, here goes nothing.  Sometime over the weekend, I'll be attempting to go down this somewhat familiar path.  If it's the one I'm supposed to start walking on, I'll find out.  If not, I'll find that out too.  Then it's on to "Plan B," and then perhaps "Plan C."  But one thing I'm not going to do is worry about it.

Because in a short four and a half weeks, I'll have the chance (however short-lived) to spend my free time making up for all those moments that I didn't spend living.