A Quarter Life Crisis

True education is to learn how to think . . . not what to think.
— Jiddu Krishnamurti

When I was twenty-five years old I had a quarter life crisis. A quarter life crisis is about finding your purpose. See Trainspotting, Fight Club and The Matrix and for heaven’s sake, take the red pill. The cliché of the quarter life crisis is travelling: you go on an adventure to ‘find yourself’ and what you discover is: wherever you go, there you are.

When you travel, you become acutely aware you are a story you tell yourself.

In my story I was twenty-five, bored, frustrated and wanting a life less ordinary. So, I changed my life and became a stand-up comedian. When I was twenty-five I thought I was terribly old to discover that I wanted to be a comedian. Twenty-five seems incredibly young now, but when you’re twenty-five, that’s the oldest you’ve ever been – it’s a personal best. And if things aren’t going according to plan, if you don’t even have a plan, twenty-five feels horribly old.

It’s easy to look back on my life and think, ‘That’s the only way it could’ve gone.’ But I’m acutely aware it could’ve gone another way. Life: it’s either a wonderful adventure or it’s a super fucking boring trudge. I know because I very nearly had the boring trudge.

I love a good crisis. The word ‘crisis’ has a bad reputation. It has an image problem – ‘crisis’ requires some crisis management. A crisis suggests something terrible. A full-on, shitting-in-your-hand-and-clapping breakdown. It’s a bad word. As a society we crave stability, but really a crisis is just a point at which we change and move on.

Change is always right around the corner. It’s probably best to start thinking of it as a good thing because however comfortable and content you are right now, this too shall pass. However despairing and anxious you are right now, this too shall pass. Look! I’ve gone all fucking hippy and I’m leaning into it. Hang on a minute while I light a joss stick.

Sandalwood . . . Nice.

If you don’t make it happen, life is going to happen to you.

When I was twenty-five, I was being cautious, I was living timidly. If I had continued that way, I’d now be writing a book called The Road Most Travelled. Never mind ‘The Hero’s Journey’, I was living ‘The Incidental Character’s Journey’. Because here’s the thing: in the first twenty-five years of my life, I didn’t make any decisions. I did as well as I could in any given circumstance. I did well in school, because that seemed like the right thing to do, I went to Cambridge because that seemed sensible, and I got the best job I could at the end of it all: marketing executive at an oil company. There’s no end to the obvious ‘right thing’ to do next. The only downside is, it isn’t your life. It’s that question again: who’s driving?

It’s embarrassing to admit: back then I had no ability to think. I’m now a writer and performer in a creative industry, that is to say I have a pretty good imagination. But my problem was – somewhat ironically – a total lack of imagination.

What nobody teaches you at university or on the management fast-track scheme, and what I had to find out for myself, was the practical application of knowledge. That bit is called living. I sometimes meet people who are fresh out of university and they’re already having a crisis, they’re flailing, and I think, ‘That’s impressive, you’re getting this done early.’

‘Never complain, never explain.’

Jimmy