Autocorrect and a Tired, Trying...Pigeon. Meet Masha.
I’d like to introduce you to someone. Her name is Masha. She’s up at 6 AM almost every morning. She works out every morning. She religiously makes her bed, tidies her room, and puts on a pre-planned, hopefully socially “fashionable” outfit. She takes the time to care for her skin using creams that sound at once terrifyingly chemical and almost edible. “Grapefruit-Green Tea Retinoid.” Yummy. She sits down to a breakfast that wouldn’t look out of place on the most annoying health Instagram you could find, and writes out daily plans, goals, and intentions with aesthetically pleasing pens.
So, that’s Masha.
But you’ve just got to meet this other girl too.
It’s 4:12 in the morning, and she’s walking down the sidewalk wearing a pair of black boots. She’s got Pink Floyd playing in her headphones. In the cold, her slow breaths forms clouds in front of her face, obscuring her vision without offering the relief of nicotine. Half an hour later, she’ll be found sitting at her desk, furiously typing on her laptop, surrounded by a mildly concerning amount of empty coffee mugs. She’s playing a guessing game of “Still Up, or Already Awake?” with every notification on her phone. Oh yeah, her name is Masha.
Wait hang on. Let me help you get to know one last person. Networking is so important nowadays, after all.
She’s walking down the stairs into the subway station. Her hands are shoved deep into her pockets, even though she knows that it’s bad for her jacket. She’s blasting slightly shitty upbeat music in her earbuds to keep herself awake and vaguely “smiley looking.” She’ll get on the train and force herself to crack open the book she’s reading, even though I swear to god all she wants to do right now is read 35 Reasons Hipsters Ruined 2017. She’ll get off the subway, close her eyes for a second, mutter some affirmation that’s certainly not awfully original, and begin her day.
Her name is Masha too.
And she’s really glad to meet you.
But, she’s really tired.
She’ll pass for a “morning bird” or for a “night owl,” but claiming either identity would make her some sort of avian imposter. She’s just some form of permanently exhausted pigeon.
So we’ve covered introductions and bird metaphors. Great. Let’s move on to another subject we clearly all hold dearest: Autocorrect.
We blame autocorrect for all sorts of things.
It’s ruined its fair share of flirtatious interactions, and has helped me have some LOVELY conversations with my parents. (I will definitely be home as soon as I’m done doing meth in Starbucks.)
To be honest, we love to blame autocorrect awfully often.
So let me stand up for my buddy Autocorrect for a minute. It saves my sorry arse when I realize I don’t even know how to BEGIN spelling “Acquiesce.”
And it makes me think about my life.
You see, a little while ago, my phone has started suggesting the word “Tired” an awful lot. It’s become a bit like an enthusiastic attendant in an empty store, who asks every three minutes if I’m SURE he can’t offer me a suggestion of “Tired.” It’ll be at a 50% discount - I’m a very regular customer.
A few days ago, amidst a text discussion, my Space-Grey iphone6s decided to start a side-gig as a psychic:
“I (tried) tired this morning.”
“(Tried) Tired.”
“(Tried.) Tired.”
“(TRIED.) TIRED.”
“God Damn it. “
“(Tried.) Tired.”
In the end, I went with “Attempted.” And I attempted to figure out where on earth I went wrong.
They say “You Only Fail When You Stop Trying.” And trying, really trying, is incredibly satisfying. Like, almost on the level of those photos of perfectly organized supermarket shelves.
Oddly enough, the actual “trying” is more satisfying than the result it all yields. I’d always assumed that reaching Big Girl Goals and hitting whatever arbitrary milestones I create for myself would make me happy. Realizing that this is not the case is among the most mindblowing personal discoveries I’ve ever made. The “Trying” part is apparently what tickles me pink. Or whatever gender-neutral colour is PC now. I’m somehow happier writing the last page than I am hitting “Save” on the final manuscript. Happier answering the last question on my last final than I am staring at my GPA two weeks later.
They say this is what “Trying” means. So, I suppose the act of “Trying” is..trying. Spend a day working your arse off and you’ll be exhausted. Tired. So maybe my phone isn’t wrong all the time - clearly “Tried” turns to “Tired” sometimes.
But not always. And that’s the frustrating part.
Apparently the average U.S, citizen scrolls through a solid 6.19 miles a year on their smartphone. Now, I may be a runner, but I’d timidly venture to say that, for a good amount of people, that’s more miles than they’ll be running in 2018. Run 6.2 miles, and most of us will be a little out of breath. Scroll through an hour of Instagram (the equivalent of a few feet) and I’m suddenly too weak to walk those few feet to my desk and start working on something important. Endless “scientific” articles, memes about coffee, fitspiration, and happy pretty people in happy pretty places being all...successful, it’s all exhausting.
Obviously I’m “attempting” to take a quick break. And yet, after five minutes, I’m trying tired. No. You don’t get it. I need to research study tips! I’m just trying tired. TRYING TIRED. Or maybe, fine. I’m lying, really. As in I wish I were lying down. Clearly my whole body needs a rest because my thumb worked for a few minutes.
I’m not here to make a case against “Tired.” “Tired” is great. One word, and I can field any “How Are You?” question. Start a conversation complaining exhaustion, and instantly I’m “relatable.” And, no-one will argue that going to bed TRULY tired after a day’s work is incredible.
So, let me extend my wing out to you - I’m still a permanently exhausted pigeon after all. We may as well be honest - this haphazardly creative wannabe-hyperproductive insomniac won’t be altering her habits anytime soon. If I have to be Tired all the time, fine. So be it. But I’d rather be TIRED because I TRIED. Not because I wasted my time exhausting myself by scrolling 6.19 miles through the “inspiring” and “mindblowing” information that I secretly despise. Apparently, mistakes are a sign that you’re trying. But I think my phone’s equating of “tired” with “trying” might be a mistake in itself. After all (if I’m lucky) I may someday be able to conceal the ever-present bags under my eyes and showcase the results of my work. Something tells me that showing off my thumb’s pedometer (while sipping at the 3-shot espresso I swear I need) won’t have the same effect.
