The Fear of Falling Behind

Last night a 20-year-old won a championship while I studied flashcards.

I know it's not fair to compare.

He's a multimillionaire while I have thousands in debt.

He's an Italian wonderboy while I'm a midwest nobody.

He's raised on racetracks while I'm five miles from haystacks.

But it still stings, after all, I'm the elder between us.

I've barely held a "real" job.

I don't have my own home.

I still struggle to make a phonecall.

Some from my high school grad class are married.

With kids.

As is in more than one.

Meanwhile, I re-watched Spider-Man and imagined I was him.

Some of them are buying cars and houses;

they're posting pictures of their spouses,

updating LinkedIn with a shining internship.

Or a job.

I hate when it's a job.

Even though I graduated early, I hopped back into school,

so now I compare myself to 30 somethings,

half of which are on their second career.

I walk into a room, my face full of youth, but soul tired.

No.

Exhausted.

No amount of caffeine can cure this headache,

or perhaps at this point it's heartbreak.

If only I'd been something better as a child.

If only I found a way to make crowds light up, wild.

I could have been the wonderboy.

Instead, I'm stuck falling behind.