When I was 6 years old I went to dinner with my family at a nice restaurant to celebrate my Dad’s promotion. It took forever for our food to come, and I got so frustrated I crawled underneath the table and bawled my eyes out. Partially because I was famished, mostly because I was just that fed up.
I’ve always been impatient. Getting stuck in traffic is a nightmare. Getting put on hold by the phone company is horrifying. Waiting in line for brunch? Absolutely not. (And let’s be honest people, how amazing can the Auntie’s and Uncle’s breakfast be that it’s worth waiting an hour in -30 for? I’ve had it. It’s fine.)
It took a long time for me to fully grasp the root of my impatience but it dawned on me recently that I am absolutely obsessed with time.
I have this looming fear of waking up when I’m 80 years old and thinking man, what did I do with my life? And in battling this fear, I’ve become weirdly fixated on making the most of the time I have.
I mean, when people bail last minute on Sunday morning coffee I literally go into a panic because now I have this open time which had been slotted away and have nothing life-changing to fill it with.
It’s bizarre and stressful and completely unnecessary because the fact of the matter is, I genuinely love downtime. I am passionately obsessed with looking ahead to all the epic adventures I have coming up that I’ve forgotten how much I enjoy chilling the fuck out with a beer and a book.
I love sitting alone at home doing nothing but singing along to the Wicked soundtrack and pretending to be famous.
I love writing letters to people that I know I’m never going to send because I simply need to get my thoughts out.
I love doing nothing.
I have loved my life a weird amount. It’s been filled with people and places and things that I have loved the absolute shit out of. It’s been wild. Busy. Filled with laughter and plane rides and late nights on rooftops. It’s great to love your life. But I also think that when it’s cold and I’m tired and there’s Netflix to be had, it’s okay to love my life from the comfort of my sweatpants. It’s okay to be happy in a simple way – in a way I might not remember a couple years down the road but enjoyed at the time.
I don’t have to sit on my death bed and think holy shit balls, I really did everything. What I’d like more is to sit on my death bed and think holy shit balls, I was so fucking happy. And whether that happiness came from the top of a mountain or the comfort of my couch, either one sounds lovely to me.