In late August,
the throngs of young professionals spilling off of the bus and out of the El on their way back from work in the evenings made me queasy. A maximal minimalism of Allbirds, ON runners, AirPod Pros—glued as more a part of their bodies than their own legs, stationary for nine hours, just now coming back to life. Black backpacks, dark greys, tailored palazzo pants, nice knits, somewhere between drained silence and defensive laugh. Oversized tote, respectful navy tie. Or, worse, laptop still out on the El, jittering around like my own stomach as we rounded another turn, zooming through Lincoln Park, frustratedly trying to click File Save Send on a painstakingly formatted workbook of pivot tables. A client call taken in the street at 9:30 when the party was far from over. Eyes dry and they slide through glass doors for Chipotle, again. No energy left for the cabinet, the metal pot, the stove. Potentially a pick-me pup (definitely a golden). Athleisure on Fridays if working from home—mandatory on the weekend. Brunch. Sleep in. Scroll. Meal prep (maybe). Wake up on Monday morning, sliver of dread, to do it all again.
Is this all it is? I thought,
in September.
Is my life this elixir of athleisure, two-factor authentication, and small talk in the afternoon?
By October,
I was fighting back. Realizing those dark circles came from hard work and nobody knowing exactly what they want to do or where they want to go. Furrowing brow that you can be lost in the middle of Europe—maybe in a nightclub in Ibiza, or on a hillside hiking by some cows—or lost on the bus home from work. You can be confused in a meeting hearing that you’re not being promoted, or confused under your grandmother’s quilt on your twin-sized bed in your childhood home. It’s not any different. It’s the same type of lost. You can feel the same uncontrollable glee pounding into the sweaty locker room at the gym at 8:25AM on a Saturday or helping a coworker code that you can, say, befriending a budding acoustic musician on a candlelit rooftop in Marrakech. We’re in our early twenties. That see saw between lost, confused, and joyous certainty is most certainly allowed.
Come late November,
the commuter wave seemed to move as if set to Vivaldi. I was no longer repulsed by the overcoats—I wondered where they found the plaid ones. I started wondering what they’d puzzled on that day at work, what fired them up, or calmed them down, if they still thought about what they wanted to be when they grew up (my dad says he does), and did they care about it more than the news??? Advice from my friend: “I remind myself they’re not paying me enough to cry” and, “then I remember we’re not out here saving any lives” appeared as sticky notes on my own fridge (*and maybe they are, or you are; in that case, let us dry your tears with a fierce hug and thank you more often than we have!). I began to enjoy the smaller half of my microwave curry and instant rice so tenderly on my Monday night, knowing the bigger half was left for Tuesday. And I realized it wasn’t sad or nauseating because, in this stage of life, I can tack “right now” onto any of these sentences and make them even truer. Go back, read again, try it. Let the concerto come again.
Then it was December.
I started appreciating the nobility in showing up every day and doing it again, expecting great things (but as an exhale, not an inhale, like I did for so many years!), shortening my sentences, and, simply, contributing.
Now it is January,
a new year. And reading back on my autumn sentiment is the only thing that nauseates me—how horribly entitled those thoughts! I recognize my resistance to change. How worthy it is to work and do good work at all. How noble it is to grow up and suddenly be able to support yourself, your weekends, your happy failures, and your future. It is a gift, just like a blank new year. It is… that simple. I hear so clearly a truth: this “right now” implies a part of a process. And it is one I am grateful I’ve begun.
From somewhere fun between the Magic School Bus and the struggle bus (with love and gratitude for all of you!), likely wearing layers,
Thanks for still writing!