Post Partum Star Wars...An Existential Crisis

Maybe it's the fact that Mercury is  retrograde...

Maybe it's the fact that Kylo Ren killed his own father, Han Solo...(or did he?)

Maybe it's the fact that now that I've seen Star Wars VII, there's nothing to look forward to until Star Wars VIII...

But, I'm definitely on this side of bummer...

I can't explain it, but while I'm not exactly unhappy, I'm just not feeling as creatively challenged lately. Ever so often, I go into a sort of existential crisis where I examine my life and I debate whether I am living up to my own potential? Every so often, I debate as to whether or not I should even bother with this blog anymore. The optimist in me, will rear up and say, but what if you were one more blog post away from some major life-changing 'thing' that would blow up on the net and make you achieve a sort of immortality? The realist in me says that many people live their whole lives and die never achieving anything other than a sort of humdrum existence and are only mourned by a select few.

I'd settle for something in between that.

Actually, the way things are right now, I am probably the fulfilment of that line in Bridget Jones' Diary where, in a particularly dark moment, she speculates whether her only meaningful relationship will be with a bottle of wine and that she will die fat and alone, being found three weeks later half-eaten by wild dogs. In my case though, it'd probably be cats.

At least, I am at the point in my life where I no longer self-medicate with food or alcohol. I've given that all up and now spend much of my time debating the merits of quinoa vs brown rice. Chia versus flax. I spend endless time trying to assess the degree to which I absolutely abhor and detest kale, all the while stuffing it in everything from soup to salad.  Two to three nights a week, I ingest fish, I say ingest because to me eating implies enjoyment. I don't enjoy fish per se. I ingest it because it is healthy.

All of this should, I rationalize, make me a better person.

But am I?

Or maybe I'm the same carb-loading, junk food junkie I always was, just under better control.

In any case, I realize that I am complicated.  Probably most of us are. However, lately I worry that I am complicated to a higher degree than some.

Take Amazon, for instance. Getting ready for work this morning, I experienced yet another existential crisis when thinking about my Amazon recommendations. I did a lot of my Aunt Jill Christmas shopping on there. Toys for various nephews and niece. As I ran my toothbrush over my pearlies, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't remembered to check off the field on Amazon that states, "This is a gift". Sure enough, after sprinting to Gavin II (my laptop natch, don't any of you read this thing?) and checking my Amazonian recommendations, in addition to the usual coterie of book, CD, and Blu Rays, there were all manner of Disney and other assorted toys recommended to me based on my shipping and browsing history. And all of the sudden, I am beyond mortified, imagining some Amazon lowly imputing my orders and thinking that I am some sort of freak who is 'into' kids toys! A second and worse thought occurred to me, that Amazon probably didn't even care, heartless profit making machine that they are, they probably don't even recognize what kinds of persons with predilections for kids toys that they are enabling! On the heels of that, was a third and probably the most unsettling thought of all that, if I was into toys, didn't they know that I would probably buy collectible and 'retro' toys that I coveted in my childhood like a Snoopy Sno Cone Machine or Easy Bake Oven? Sheesh!  Doesn't Amazon even know me AT ALL! 

I slumped back from Gavin II, world-weary and despondent. Did I even want to venture out into a world that was so out of touch that even Amazon.com doesn't 'get me'?

Like I said, maybe it's just the New Year blahs...sloughing off Yuletide cheer and thinking of how many months I have to get through to hear "Silver Bells" again...

Maybe it's Mercury...

Maybe it's just post-partum Star Wars depression...

Yeah, let's go with that.