Exhaustion and indulgence do not make other people “bad,” so why must I color them that way for myself? This is what’s at my core these days, the question I can’t fully kick.
The tunes I’ve been listening to non-stop since September rolled around.
In The New Yorker’s most recent Summer Fiction Issue, they asked some awesome writers, including Joshua Ferris, Miranda July, and Rachel Kushner to write short essays on the topic “My Old Flame.” They were so wonderful, and after a long writing drought, they inspired me to hurriedly write my own.
My family would never make it onto a cereal box, but–despite lacking excessive designer clothes and expert contouring skills–we’d probably give the Kardashians a run for their money on reality television.
I’m of the mindset that everything happens for a reason, with the caveat of: if you search hard enough for that reason. So, I’ve been digging relentlessly to try to find one, looking inside myself with the hope that I’ll figure out what this little life hiccup wants to tell me/what I can learn. I’m realizing, instead, that I might just have to succumb to the reality that these epiphanies rarely happen right away.
I can’t really blame the show for leading me astray, after all it’s entertainment, not a guide for what to expect when you’re [not] expecting. But I can overthink it, helping myself sleep at night by mocking its insane conception of young (and, eventually, less young) women living in the city.
We are constantly letting the fear of seeming too into anything (especially those people we like to see naked) turn us into overly anxious, over-analytical people.
Running into a great old friend on the street the other day reminded me why we shouldn’t let ourselves get so lazy about staying in touch.
Society has built up a problematic narrative where the ideal woman acts in a very particular way: she doesn’t care about superficial things (make-up, fashion), yet always manages to look and feel perfect despite that. Call it Jennifer Lawrence syndrome, if you will.