Calculating E[future]

May 18, 2018

I have always been an impatient person. My dad, who is without a doubt the most patient and tolerant individual I’ve ever met, says I get this trait from my mom. My mom, who is definitely less patient and tolerant (but still considerably so), generally disagrees. In younger years, I contested this characterization fiercely, believing it insulting and incorrect. Recently, however, I’ve realized that nothing has ever been more true.

Impatience has colored my memories, even the happy ones, for as long as I can remember. In middle school, for example, I thrived as an eighth grader, gossiping daily with my girl clique and dabbling in grown-up things like wearing contact lenses and texting boys. Yet I couldn’t wait to graduate and finally become a high schooler, because I was anxious for new experiences in new places with new people. In high school, I enjoyed senior year more than any other period of my life, but I was itching to leave North Carolina for California, where I could finally be a College Student Who Did Things On Her Own, Like A Real Adult. And now, I ache for summer, when I will be independent and free and live in a big city and have an actual job and do everything I’ve ever dreamed of doing.

I am rarely satisfied with what I have. It is a part of myself I dislike intensely, a side of me I cannot reconcile—because I should be happy. I have, by my own standards, everything I could want. There are days when I think about my life and am blown away by how lucky I am.

And yet. I feel like I’ve spent so much of this year waiting—for the next weekend, or the next break, or the next quarter—and it’s in these moments that my impatience affects me most, because I have never been good at living in the present.

I can’t pin it down. What am I waiting for?

This has been a year of expectation—and, for the most part, fulfillment. I hoped that within my sorority house I’d find a home, and I have been absolutely blown away by the community of incredible women I’ve encountered and come to love here. I hoped that I’d like my new job at the writing center, and it’s become one of my favorite activities on campus. I hoped that I would meet new people who challenged and pushed my limits every day, and I am continually astounded by how much I have grown these past eight months, simply due to what I’ve learned from those around me.

It has also been a year of temperance. A search for balance, if you will. That’s been a lot harder, because I don’t like to sacrifice my own expectations; I am idealistic to a fault, which has failed me as much as it’s succeeded. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to stop myself and say: Only twenty-four hours in a day. Right. Or: You can’t do everything and do it well. Right.

I’m bad at balance. Always reaching. Always grasping for a handhold. Never steady. And when I am, ultimately, unsuccessful—that inevitable fall—I’m never particularly good at picking myself back up. It reminds me of this one afternoon when I was walking to work and I decided to take a shortcut through the grass, still wet from last night’s rain. I slipped and landed on the ground, hard, and for a moment I just lay there, unmoving, absorbing the pain. I should stay here. Too much work to get up and keep walking.

Here is something I know I am waiting for: this year’s end. I am tired of school. I have pushed my limits academically, and, for the most part, I have let myself down. I cannot wait for fall quarter, when I might finally be happy with the classes I’m taking. Art history. Spanish literature. Italian. Such course titles have never brought a bigger smile to my face.

Here is something I don’t ever want to come: this year’s end. Yes, here is my biggest hypocrisy, my biggest flaw. I cannot wait for the next adventure in my life, yet I cannot stop holding on to what has already passed. The days unravel too quickly here, and I am left grasping, strings limp in my hands. Memories blurred. Some clear. An evening on the floor with all my closest friends, laughing about the travesty of squatty potties. A day spent, hand-in-hand, exploring the brightly-colored beach houses of Half Moon Bay. The moment in which I write this, in my friend’s bed, Glass Animals playing, the coziness of night settling upon our shoulders.

There is something so terrifying about the present moment; something with which I will never fully be comfortable; something intensely unsettling about turning off my brain for just a second, sinking to my knees, letting myself breathe.

Have you heard Odesza’s A Moment Apart? I’m listening to it now. Every time I hear the intro, I get chills over my whole body. The transitions are seamless. Each song blending into the next. My friend calls it a cinematic masterpiece.

Like that—the pages are turning. Almost too fast. If only I could slow down—if only I could keep myself from flipping to the next chapter, from spoiling it for myself. That, I think, is how I would learn that it’s what’s happening now that will get me to the end.

Header image courtesy of MExperience