I’m 38. Or 39? Whatever. The exact age doesn't even… matter anymore. I’m a freelancer, mostly graphic design stuff, some web dev when a client’s feeling flush. No benefits, obviously. Every month’s a new lottery, hoping the bills don't stack up too high. The hustle is REAL. And I’m exhausted. Mentally, physically, soul-crushingly tired. But I keep going because what else am I gonna do? My parents? Forget it. They still think I’m gonna be some big shot creative director, living in a loft, making bank. It's… not that. Not even close. My coworkers are all 20s, maybe early 30s at the absolute oldest. They talk about going out, hitting the bars, getting wasted. I just nod, pretend to be interested. Sometimes I even go for one drink, just to… not be the weird old one. But man, the noise. The shouting over music, the sticky floors, the cheap beer. It’s not for me. Never really was, even when I *was* their age. My weekends now? Usually at the community center. Tuesdays and Thursdays too, sometimes. No, not for some cardio-kickboxing bullshit. For bridge. Competitive bridge. Yeah, I know. Bridge. With a bunch of retirees. Mrs. Henderson, God bless her, probably thinks I’m her long-lost grandson. Mr. Chang calls me "young man" like it's an insult, but he's a demon with the no-trump bids. It’s quiet. Strategic. You gotta think, really think, several steps ahead. It's a mental workout that actually… feels good. Like my brain isn't just treading water, trying to keep up with the next deadline. And the stakes are low. Just bragging rights and maybe a small pot for the winner's circle. But sometimes, when I’m sitting there, looking at my hand, listening to the gentle murmur of conversation, I wonder… this is it? This is my big escape from the freelance grind? Hanging out with people who are, you know, nearing the end of *their* grind? It’s not a mid-life crisis, not really. It’s just… a question. A quiet one, like the game itself. And I don’t have an answer.