I thought I would give fewer effs.
As a twenty something, I think that I was actually less neurotic than I am now.
I've read so many fluff pieces - that, yes, I should have discounted them as fluff pieces instead of internalizing them like hard hitting journalism, as the only story - about how I've reached the age where all my inhibitions and concerns would be a thing of the past.
I thought I’d reached the glorious age where concerns about how I feel about something - well, even more so concerns about what others think of me based on said feeling - would be the Old Me.
I thought I’d reached the age where I would be unequivocally satisfied with who I am, secondhand preaching the subtle art of not giving a fuck (thanks, Mark). And while I do care (slightly) less about what others think, I also feel disoriented, and wonder if, ironically, I should actually care a bit more about certain things.
I appear to have reached the age where I have a far better appreciation for the immense amount that I don’t know, which seems to be growing at an exponential pace. As a result, I’ve learned more things to be neurotic about, like dark spots and hormones. And - because I certainly cannot leave a potential spiral unspun - concerns like what I want to do with my life now that I have a better view, and realize that my life might stay the exact same way forever if I don’t do something, now haunt me, too.
Gen Xers probably did in fact feel a sense of laissez faire gradually melt over them as they traversed their fourth decade but for my fellow millennials, we’re neck deep in what a writer who’s unequivocally more qualified than myself (token millennial self depreciation) described as the globalization of envy aka an always on, eternally accessible lens through which we can observe the infinite number of ways in which we fall short of our own preposterous expectations.
As I said, the more I learn, the less I know. Which, I’m okay with when it comes to meal prep hacks, social media lights, and how to get more followers. I’m also moderately okay knowing that I’m not operating with full information in terms of hysterical yet often nonsensical words coming out of the mouths of those in positions of power, or what Aubrey Plaza -- my absolutely-not-secret girl crush – is doing at this exact moment in space and time.
But I still give a disconcerting - possibly mounting - amount of effs about whether I’m selling myself short by telling myself that certain things aren’t for me (writing, deep sea adventures, staying up past 10pm) or fooling myself into thinking that I could never do them.
I have no chill when it comes to wondering if I’m doing enough or doing right when it comes to financing my Manhattan rent or my (currently) egregious habit of blindly pressing Buy Now. I used to - and still sometimes - troll myself, looking at others and insisting I should be farther along in my career, more knowledgeable about my area of expertise, or more… recognized (remnants of an overachieving millennial, to be sure).
I’m looking at the next 30-40 years of my career wondering where I might find myself if I did what I loved doing versus where I might land if I followed the advice of others, allowing them to grab the pen and write the story for me.
It’s never this simple, but then again, it sometimes is. Big opportunities (hi, life) don’t need big answers.
They need you to get started in a (hopefully) deliberate direction.
I’m also looking at the next 30-40 years and reaching for some neck cream so that when this envy recedes, well, I’ll be ready.