Since I dropped out of the NYC Half Marathon (with bad knees and ankles - that's my excuse) I'm reading all seven volumes of Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, a marathon in its own right.
I've set no time limits and realize that this project will take me years to accomplish. But I plan on reading In Search of Lost Time while also reading other books as well. So no rush.
I've been feeling an nagging absence of accomplishment lately. I was supposed to have written a novel by now and have started two within the last six months, both of which died after 100 pages. Slimbo's Shelf readers still number in the single digits. And with 40 heading down the pike, I have the stinging realization that career-wise, I'll be at the same place at 40 that I was at 27. I've peaked and my peak is a foothill, so to speak.
Most people would Tony-Robbins themselves into some sort of reconstructive, empowering metamorphosis and seize this crossroads to transform into America's Next Great Success Story. But not me. Fuck that. I've decided to retreat into the world of a century-old 4,000+ page text.
What's your evasive means of coping with the onset of middle age? Do tell!