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The Last Serious One |
Go Back |
| I’ve
been turning over something in my head for a few days now, and I’ve discovered
a fundamental flaw in my thinking.
I’ve been making lists of things to do… and berating myself because they’re not already done. I’ve been cleaning out my room…. but panicking because it’s not going to be empty when Tyler gets here. I’ve been clearing out my closets, and going through my books… and getting annoyed with myself for accumulating so much crap. Many times—not just at this point in my life, but all the time—I flash forward to the “future” that I am working towards. You know the one, where I live the life I imagine that normal, grownup people live. The lives that are played out in books and movies and sitcoms. When I really stop and think about this—pin down my vague notions of what this actually entails—I realize that it’s a wholly unrealistic ideal. No doubt it’s a direct result of society and the media and all that, but I bought into it. Without even stopping to consider it, I bought into it. And I’ve spent my whole adult life feeling “less than” because I haven’t gotten there yet. And what will life be like in my mystical land? I’ll be thin, but not too thin. My hair and makeup will always be perfect. My bathroom will always be clean. My purse will be free of detritus; my car will be immaculate. My bills will all be paid and in fact, I will have no debt. I will have no excess stuff in my house—everything will be weeded out until there’s nothing around that I don’t use regularly. All my clothes will fit perfectly. I’ll have a streamlined, versatile, chic wardrobe, and if something gets a rip or a stain, I will throw it away without guilt. I will have the perfect social calendar. I’ll have Feng Shui coming out of my ears. I will never feel any emotion that is inappropriate or unreasonable. My “to do” list will be blank. I will never forget a birthday, or an anniversary. I will always buy exactly the right gift for every occasion. I will be a master of witty repartee. I will be universally beloved. I will have seen every movie I want to, and read all the important books. I will be able to lay in a hammock and drink lemonade and the thought of what I “should be doing” will never even cross my mind, because very single loose end in my life will be tied up. I will have exactly the right amount of clean underwear. I will have no regrets. A career and a relationship don’t even factor into this ideal. That stuff is all extraneous as long as I can turn my life into this efficient machine. Once I have the machine going, I can plow through marriage, and career, and money, and success, and fame, and end up on top of the world every single fucking time. The funny thing is, it isn’t completely wrong of me to want this. If it was, I could just give up altogether on having good credit and looking nice and attaining a certain degree of success. I could reject it utterly as a hollow societal construct. But having goals is not a bad thing. Quite the contrary: it’s essential. But what I have to figure out now is—at what point am I good enough? At what point can I cut myself a break? I believe that as human beings, we should always be growing, and accumulating knowledge, and working towards bettering ourselves. But do we—do I—really have to beat myself up in the process? Beat my breast and rend my garments and lay in the ash pile because I’m not perfect? Because in a sense, that’s what I’ve been doing. Every time I look at my to do list and the items that aren’t crossed off. Every time I go to the doctor and find out how much I weigh. Every time I misunderstand someone, or get annoyed too easily, or stick my foot in my mouth, or accidentally wear a blazer with a stain on the lapel. And every time I, god forbid, spend an evening camped out in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn and a book. I wonder if, in a subconscious sense, I loathe myself for not living up to my own standards. I look around and see people who have achieved a sort of adult complacency that I cannot. Sometimes, I’m convinced that everyone else in the world knows how to live their lives except me. And you know, I’m not saying this because I’m depressed. I’m actually over that whole depression thing, and life is pretty cheery again. But I’m wondering why I can’t let things go once in a while. “If I can’t do it perfectly, don’t do it at all” is really holding me back, I think, but I don’t know how to make such a fundamental change in the way my mind works. I suppose that having my life radically change around me is the catalyst for this particular rumination, and that can’t be a bad thing. Hey: I’ve just learned something about myself, right? I just don’t know the answer. I don’t know the magical combination. I’m suffering from this bizarre 21st century ennui, and I’m sort of swept up in it. All I can do at this point is hope I’m not alone.
Hey, it looks like this is going to be the last Blue & Green entry. By tomorrow, you should be able to go to mopie.com and see the new thingie. I’m hoping my new journal will be successful, although, sadly, I didn’t name it “Can’t Sleep: Clowns Will Eat Me.” I’m thrilled with the splash page, though, so there’s something. It’s the little successes in life, you know? And the little failures, too, I guess. Thanks for reading. |
marku:
 What I'm Reading: While I Was Gone. Quite good. so long, farewell!Journal Quote of the Day: “They've already waited thirty-five years to be together. I don't really blame them for not wanting to waste any more time.'”Random Tidbit: So last night, Tim says, "I've got to go to the bathroom. Hold these?" and hands me two huge jugs of beer. I lace my fingers through the handles and hold them up. As he rounds the corner he tosses back, "By the way. Nice jugs."Please click these links. It doesn’t cost you a dime, but it gets me one. Mo at the Movies: Chicken Run Work Days Left: 29 |
