I just boarded the train from Baltimore to Washington, DC and I figured this was the perfect time to do some aimless writing*. Right now I’m hyped up on coffee and sugar—let me take this moment to say dunkin donuts is bad, guys, and not even in the fun way—and also on the knowledge that in a few hours I will be in the presence of the queen herself. No, I’m not talking about Beyonce or Her Actual Royal Highness up in England. I’m referring to the one and only Hillary Clinton—one of the most intelligent, brilliant, and badass women to ever own a closet full of pantsuits. I was invited by my friend Anna (via her grandmother who is now everything to me) to go to the Emily’s List 30th Anniversary Gala, and spent this morning panicking about what to wear and then firmly scolding myself for worrying about such materialistic, frivolous, inconsequential things and then being like, no, but really, I need to look nice for this. It was the fun kind of emotional roller coaster where you get little sweaty and shave 5 minutes off your projected lifespan.
Thankfully all is now good and with every moment that passes I get closer to Hillary Clinton! How cool is that?? “Very cool” feels like a gross understatement. And I’m taking the time to really appreciate a warm seat and snow-covered hills outside the window and a chance to breath and be alone. This bit of solitude couldn’t have come at a better time. As any highly social introvert will tell you, there comes a time when it all gets to be a bit too much. I realized said time had arrived two days ago, when I had just spent hours writing and discovered that I was feeling really antisocial. Really, really antisocial—the kind where I didn’t want to be looked at or pick up on social cues or speak intelligible words of any kind. Unfortunately, I was also sitting at a desk in the middle of the library. Humans surrounded me.
My second realization was like a deep stab in the heart: I had to pee. So I sat there, frozen, internally torn between human contact and actually peeing on myself for a good 45 minutes.
My problems aren’t real.
Which is why it’s a good thing that I’m sitting here, feeling at peace with the world, in a string of cars slowly making their way towards Hillary Clinton. This is good both for me and the chairs at the Ath**—who were narrowly spared a sad, pee soaked day—and for all the people who I love spending time with normally. I will be the first to admit that I’m a pale imitation of myself when I haven’t had a chance to recharge. And now that I’m thinking about it, a train recharge has to be about twice as potent as a normal one, right? This feels right to me.
Recently (i.e. 20 seconds ago) I realized it’s important to not be so hard on myself when I feel a little less colorful than usual—when I don’t have as much to say. This goes for all of us. The truth is that we aren’t going to be on our game all of the time. Just like we aren’t going to be happy all the time, or feel particularly smart or witty or socially adept. Sometimes we just exist, and that’s okay.
I was thinking about happiness yesterday, as I crouched on a chair and ate my cinnamon roll (I know. It was pretty cute). We have a culture where society’s taught us that happiness is simultaneously very important and something that is tenuous, something to be fought for tooth and nail. We place so much emphasis on being happy and then say things like “when you enter the real world…”, like woah, then you’ll be in for a cruel awakening. The implication is that the true nature of “real life” is discontentment and we’re all just working to briefly enter the vague, ethereal half-reality of happiness before it slips away. But, guys, what makes sadness the default and happiness the exception? Sure, sadness is a lot sexier. The hard emotions are dramatic and intriguing. When literature, art, or movies depict ennui, heart-wrenching loss, and seething hatred we call them “gritty, bold, unflinchingly real.” I never really stopped to wonder—what makes them more real than romantic comedies, or children’s movies that have happy endings? Those things can happen! Actually! Why do we act like talking about them is easy? Because, when you really think about it, it’s a lot easier to flounder and sink. Trust me, I get it. I’m a cynic by nature who’s spent many years actively working to sidestep pits of despair. Only within the past few years have these attempts been what I’d call “successful.” I also get how those hard emotions can inspire creativity. I was looking back through my notebooks yesterday and was struck by how very much inner-turmoil most of my writing, creative or otherwise, explored. The angst of it all! The hardship! Also shoutout to hormones because those things know their stuff.
At the heart of it all is the fact that happiness is easy to take for granted. We overlook it and we forget that sometimes we have to make it for ourselves. It’s very hard to ignore disillusionment or anxiety or depressions. Those things burrow into you and they make a home there—they coat our skin and clutch at our bodies and clamp down. It seems to me that this whole cultural perception, that hardship = reality, adds to the idea that once you stop feeling happy you might get stuck that way. I’ve seen in my peers (and myself) that the moment people aren’t especially excited, overtly stimulated, happy in the best way, they have a moment of internal panic. They start to wonder if this is how it will always be. They scramble to find a thing or a person or a place that will “fix” their situation. What makes us need fixing? Isn’t it enough to just be for a while?***
Okay, I was about to top this stream-of-consciousness post off with a book review, because rhyme or reason was abandoned soon after the first sentence, but I HAVE ARRIVED. HELLO, WASHINGTON! Now placing bets on whether it will take me 15 or 10 minutes before I run into Obama.
Final thoughts:
-If you, too, are a self-identified introvert, I highly recommend the book “Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking” by Susan Cain. This was not the book I was poised to review, but it’s wonderful.
-I just got a strong feeling that greyhounds are the most subversive kind of dog, but I need a little more time before I can articulate why. Maybe this will be my next topic?
*arguably the best kind. I would entertain the idea of having that argument.
**Library
*** Also, yes, this thought process is 100% enabled by my own privilege! Just the fact that we (my peers and I) can sit in the Ath moaning about deadlines and contemplating happiness is a gift, it really is, and I get how lucky I am.