While much has been said about the mid-life crisis and the quarter-life crisis, I have a different problem. I think I'm now stuck in this depthless ennui of the third-life, that time in my life when I realize that I've finished one third of my life and what do I have to show for it, nothing but huge lovehandles on my tummy, cellulite on my legs and my arms, several wrinkles and frown-lines that would never be erased off my face, an empty pocket and bank account, and an even emptier set of letters attached to my name indefinitely - MD. Medical Doctor for most, Matandang Dalaga for some, Malditang Dramatista for a few, and just plain nothing for me.
I have reached this point in my life when the things I used to enjoy no longer spark the same excitement. There is no desire to seek for new experiences, no longing to see new worlds. All that remains is the compulsion to stare at the clock and watch time pass by. There is no reason to wake up in the morning (play that crappy Nescafe bumabangon commercial), no energy to kindle passions, and no memory to bring them to mind.
For instance, the past 3 weeks, I have done nothing but watch pirated movies and downloaded TV shows, salivate over those brawny gladiators from the show Spartacus, while feasting on junkfood and all that fat and salt. Heck, I even watched Glee even if those kids suck in their petty existence and shallow lives. All these done while perched on the treadmill machine of the cardiology complex in my poverty-ridden hospital. Geeez, I don't even have an apartment where I can vegetate in. Now that is extreme poverty, isn't it?
I could not remember the last time I took care of myself enough for me to haul my lazy fat butt all the way to Roxas Boulevard for a jog. My camera bought 2 months ago is now rotting in my locker and I have turned down well-meaning friends who invite me for refreshing conversation, and even lied just to avoid them.
This is the time when you're 30-something and all your friends are either married, having babies, or planning on finding their lifetime partners. They're parading their new cars, new houses, or boasting about their first million. And then you look at yourself and realize that you actually live on a mattress propped on the treadmill machine of your office (not on the floor for fear of the cockroaches), you can't sleep beyond 5:15am because the office janitor arrives at 5:30am and you're scared you might be mistaken for a fat decomposing corpse or a junkie hiding in the treadmill room. This is the time when nothing is fun, nothing is exciting, nothing is beautiful, nothing is profound, nothing is worth doing, and all you really are and everything you've really done in your 30 years of pathetic existence is in fact, simply nothing.
And all you can do is wonder what's next, what is there to all these, and Lord, please Lord, help me get my groove back.