Be! Enjoy!
Seven Yrs Later are stories on change, in dialogue with Seven Yrs Ago.
I mean, since you asked—I am killing the quarantine game. I can be by myself, no problem; I’m better than the average person at that. Friends? I’ll see you online, at a time that’s optimal for the both of us, at least, I’m so busy being free. As the bananas foster cake caramelizes in the oven, I’ll do my low impact HIIT cardio, uniquely greet each friend for their birthday, leash-train and harness the cat, meditate for ten minutes or lose my streak, redesign the website, check the job board of a company that hasn’t acknowledged me for years, finish two books and their HBO series, test those new concealers because I will not come out of this looking tired. I am energized by my efforts, so I will not sleep. There’s the copy to write and a world’s worth of disasters to scroll through. I will be profoundly changed after this because I am the best at getting better. Until tomorrow, I wait, awake.
We can blame capitalism and media for the fixation to do better, but I’ll blame my childhood. I learned how to read at four and how to do circumference by six. My parents, particularly my dad, knew I had an absorbent brain, but the holes would clog up as I’d grow up, so they flung their spongey only child into the rapids. I attended schools whose acronyms stood for “Science” and “Laboratory,” signs that I was already part of some experiment. My cortex was magnetized towards College, an emerald city and confection factory that dangled my fate, and like all cryptic benefactors, it had to choose me, not the other way around. Summers were for drilling deficiencies, like writing, which I failed in my high school entrance exam. I took piano and dance for ten years, virtuosic except for how I’d skip practicing to do homework, six days a week until midnight for nine AP courses. This insatiable work ethic transitioned well into architecture school, which coveted such devotion, yet was unmoved by self-destruction.
My parents and teachers succeeded in enabling me to survive and serve society, but after 18 years of formalities, I don’t know if I accomplished much. I have a job that I had minimal training in, proving I didn’t need to know things to get paid. I have a project that’s personally fulfilling, but I nag myself to make it professional, and selling yourself ain’t easy. I have incredible discipline and incredible anxiety that whatever I’m doing isn’t perfect enough. If I’m not exceptional in purpose, then I must be in pleasure.
Since my lil egghead cracked in college, I sought to fill all areas of my life because intelligence alone didn’t ground me, so I employ my free time. There are roughly six areas that I determined I’m deficient in: health, girlhood, social awareness, internal work, adulting, and becoming interesting. The categories contain the broad to molecular, like saving and investing wisely, getting in touch with my body, researching organizations and artists I respect, and having more regular poops (my friends give tips without prompting, so all of our shit should be better). Distrustful of my ability to maintain habits I want, I cycle through four to six concerns daily, like a maniacal Sim that knows she might get abducted. Mornings are for hardship, evenings for illumination, and after an unavoidable day of sitting, I stand before my laptop and suggest I unclench. I’m well-rounded now, which means I have to keep rolling, whether I’m on the ball or am the ball, then gravity happens, so I can obediently spin towards burnout, that glistening spiral—or I can bounce. Sometimes I do nothing. For me, joy is a rebellious act.
Joy is licking an ice cream cone and sending a pic to spite your friend. It’s buying into the Gap sale when you wear real clothes once a week. It’s watching Buzzfeed instead of the news because you do want to see Latino Daddies Take Joyce on a Date. It’s taking an hour-plus phone call while you work, so you can forget how you’re contending and forge on in contentment. It’s mailing surprises and making people cry, and I love making people cry. I aim to be this Übermensch, rupturing with creative productivity, when being ordinary and intact is just fun. You don’t plan joy, you let it loose. I adore my goals and progress, so I will not abandon motivation, but I will abolish methods that don’t work as hard as I do. Even if you think you do too little rather than too much, you can unlearn imbalance with disruption, with riotous confidence and delight. Enjoy that you did whatever the fuck you wanted, because you’re going to do whatever the fuck you need to do next. Time hasn’t caught up yet. It’ll learn.