I might as well put it out there that I may very well occasionally be eight going on eighteen. I probably consume far too much coffee and far too little chocolate. I refuse to carry umbrellas and I haven't the foggiest idea how to use nail polish. Now that confessions are over - I'm glad you're here.
All in theory
And yet, I don’t really want to tell her anything. “Oh Honey” or not, she’s definitely a lot sweeter than I am. She knows how to train 5 hours a day and then come home and do physics homework. She spends hours teaching herself how to count cards. And she doesn’t say “Fuck” when she drops a pencil. She wasn’t afraid of having “stuff.” Besides, who on earth would want a 4’11’’ kid walking around spouting unenlightened wisdom everywhere? Sounds like a bloody nightmare. She’d be fun at parties.
As Masha walked to the subway station that morning, she realized that it’s been an awfully long time since she’d actually gotten a report card. And that’s a pity. In a way, I almost miss the adrenaline rush that came with handing over the Scary Manila Envelope to Mama and Papa, hoping to be deemed worthy of whatever science kit was the pinnacle of my desires at the moment.
So I figured I’d give myself one. Don’t worry, it’s 100% Serious and Legitimate. I used a red pen and everything. So, Masha, here it is. I’m handing this to you the same way I’ve slipped transcripts to my parental unit for years now: here’s the report, and here’s my personal disclaimer. Something about how the barometric pressure outside hasn’t been ideal for cognitive function. Maybe there have just been way too many Thursdays lately. You know, I’ve just been really, really busy.
“Her Lifelong Search to be an Extension Cord,” or “Her Craving to be Irreplaceable to Someone” don’t sound like descriptions of a novel that flies off the shelves or the story to a movie that sets box office records. But, as the love-triangle-avoiding protagonist, which in a non-dystopian world of padded resumes and knitting clubs, I’m afraid that’s as close to a “Quest for Belonging” that I’m going to get.
We’re all craving a “detox,” but maybe it’s not to cleanse our bodies of nonexistent “chemicals” or to throw our phones off the Empire State. Maybe we just need to dump a day’s, or a lifetime’s worth of Little Things onto something besides a motion sensor. It certainly sounds less attractive than “Green Goddess” or “Australia, Disconnected.” I won’t get any dates by telling my friends “I’ll be your liver.” That’s definitely not sexy. But I can tell them that I’m fine with them cleansing their day’s memories with me. So Hey. How was your day?
(Credit for cover photo goes to the very talented Todd Shaffer)
“I don’t think you understand. You want me to tell you when you’ll be sitting in your economics class. I’m trying to tell you I don’t know if I’ll let you stand up tomorrow. All I know about your future is that it comes one day at a time.”
I’m not a fan of saying words changed my life, but that one sentence truly did.
From that morning on, Masha (who probably liked 5-Year-Plans and little red planners as much as Mao) refocused the lens she used to see her future. I see “Today.” “Right now.” Usually a “Tomorrow,” but beyond that, who knows. I can tell you that today, at 5 PM, I’ll be writing, or doing Law homework. I can also tell you that “Next Month” pages in planners make me uncomfortable, no matter how much pretty lettering and how many stickers they’re decorated with.
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.
“Random Acts of Kindness” remind me a bit of another kind of “Random Act” that I perform all too often. Let’s call them “Random Acts of Productivity,” shall we? I’m sure you can relate, or at least I sincerely hope so. It may be 3 AM and that paper may be due in four hours, but suddenly I’m the Housecleaning Hero. My floor needs sweeping! That month-old email needs answering! I must check my stocks! My notebook sits unopened on my desk, but you’ll find me in the kitchen making effing quinoa salad for tomorrow’s lunch. I’ll feel great looking at my spotless living room for a few minutes. Maybe feel a little less guilty for wasting the entire day doodling. But, really, I’m just avoiding something. Random Acts of Procrastination.
They say “Growing old is mandatory, but growing up is optional.” I think. Or, is it “Growing up is mandatory, but growing old is optional?” I’m going to be honest - I have no idea. I’m sure a quick google search could give me an answer, but perhaps it would be nice to leave myself one question that I could still try to answer even if my wifi is down. So, I flipped it around in my mind a few times. Once upon a time in the long-gone days of four years ago, Masha learned something about converses of statements. Now, a not-much-wiser Masha’s on a subway train wearing a pair of obscenely dirty Converse. I know what either means - someone else can prop open a logic textbook, and Buzzfeed can tell me my “Shoe Personality.” I’m just going to think.
Even someone as blonde as I am knows none of these mean anything without more concrete goals and accountability, and I've got some wonderful reality-checks in store for future Masha, so that ought to be fun. I'm honestly just very, very happy to be alive this year, and to have the ability to worry a little less about that being a given.
HAPPY NEW YEAR to all of you. If anything, you can always resolve to stop hanging around people who make New Year's resolutions.
It certainly doesn't feel like it but, with the exception of two, all days in your life are 24 hours long. Sure sometimes your boss yells at you and you miss someone and you're cold and running late and the day seems to take about three and a half years. Other times, I'm pretty sure my day feels short enough to be a non-skippable Youtube ad. The 24-hour cycle hasn't changed, but the "days" are shorter now.
