Dear readers,
I am writing to you from a window seat in the East Branch Library.
Did you know that the library opens at NOON???
It’s a sick cruel joke.
I spent $8 on a latte I should’ve gotten iced. I almost dropped it when I found out the lib was closed and I would have to walk twenty minutes back home or twiddle my thumbs for two hours.
Famously, this is not the only $8 coffee that has haunted me this week.
On Tuesday I walked to Rochambo during a break at work and bought a delicious Grace latte. Their in-house caramel syrup is divine even though the barista will tell you it costs a million dollars (it might as well).
Silly me thought that an iced oat milk latte would be the perfect refreshment for a scream-filled outdoor recess. I needed a zap of sugar and caffeine to soothe my thinning patience. I could already feel a zit growing under my sweaty face mask and needed an excuse to keep it on my wrist while outside.
But alas, one of my second-grade students (more commonly known by her self-given pseudonym “Mr. Cappuccino”) ignored my requests to be careful. She tried to jump on my back to get a sip and knocked the cup out of my hands.
We stared in shock as eight dollars pooled into a sticky puddle at our feet.
“You only make eight dollars an hour??? You should make at least $30!” My second graders laughed after I teased them for not heeding my warnings. I almost asked them to talk to my supervisor but decided against using children as pawns for a raise.
If you read the blog post before this you are aware of my current disposition. I have been wallowing in useless self-pity and oozing apology for my hideousness (to which my too-expensive therapist would ask—according to whom are you hideous? What is the context surrounding this thought?).
I feel…purposeless, untethered, and disappointing.
I don’t know what’s to be expected of me anymore other than I’m not meeting those unknown expectations.
What do I want to do with the time I have right now? I’m so tired all the time and it seems like all I do is a bunch of nothing. It’s not even a fulfilling malaise that peppers afternoons with dawdling walks or staring at ceilings in appreciation of music. The kind of empty that artists fill with creative energy. No, for my nothing I just sit and skim the surface of what I think the world is.
When people ask me if I’m dating I try to laugh it off and say that I’m way too busy to date and not at all interested. This is hilarious because you all know it’s almost the only thing I talk about. And what else am I doing besides reading books about being the best partner/how to ethically engage in casual sex and dating.
Talking and reading about love and dating isn’t the same thing as actually doing it right? I need Robin Williams to grab me by the face and scream the plot of Good Will Hunting. Life isn’t lived or learned in a book.
On the last date I went on, the person asked if I’d ever thought about narrowing my focus. He could’ve been talking about jobs, hobbies, and interests. I should probably cut down on all of them.
Am I even enjoying anything I’m doing?
I’m exhausted and I'm not even that busy because I get overwhelmed by wanting to do everything.
Should I do stand-up comedy? Write a book? Work my eight-million jobs? Fall in love? Or should I stop trying to do anything at all? What does rest look like? What does enjoying life feel like?
I wish I wasn’t so sad.
It’s been a part of me for as long as I can remember. I try to fill my days with new projects so I don’t have to sit in it for too many minutes because it becomes dangerous and angry. It hurts and hurts and I want to explode to make it stop.
The only interest I’ve been able to think about for more than a month at a time is getting people to like me and that person isn’t who I am anymore. If I ever was that person.
Drake said I need to learn how to love things in their wholeness. Flaws and all. It’s adolescent of me to want perfection.
I need to grow up.
x
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