Of all the very sad things in our very sad world, the one that never fails to get me is imagining a child sitting alone at a folding table, conical party hat slightly askew, gazing out uncomprehendingly at an expanse of untouched place settings and waiting for birthday party guests who will never show up. I envision the parents white-knuckled, pitying, awash with shame and heartache and anger, willing their emotions into place in order to put on a brave face for their child -- their sweet, strange child who is still far too young to be burdened with the punishments of poor socialization.
I am moved by situations where the distance between devastating and salvageable is a little bit of well-placed effort from the right person. And I’ve been thinking about places where I can be that person.
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Six days after I met Octo for the first time, I invited him to move in with me.
On paper, inviting a stranger to live with you is a dubious and potentially dangerous idea. In practice, it’s tremendously exciting, lots of fun, and a rare chance to learn about yourself in an accelerated, yet low-stakes environment. It also makes for a good story, particularly if you’re both fresh off somewhat hackjobbed international moves, receptive to indulging in mood enhancers, and navigating the first few weeks of fancy new jobs. Speaking for myself, moving in with Octo was weird and silly and special. Acting on our whims facilitated a slurry of lovely experiences: late-night cannolis and conversation, easy jogs along the Embarcadero, collaborative domesticity, reflections on power and how to wield more of it, one or two mutual confessions, a revival of my affinity toward clout goggles and mint it-it’s, and spirited conversation centered around acceptable uses cases for whole wheat tortillas (bad for burritos, good for wraps), the only two types of people in this world (cult leaders and cult followers), and how we plan to make the most of our limited, precious time on this earth. Increasingly, much of my personality relies upon a blend of humility, Selflessness (in the capital ‘S’ sense), and mirth of the cup-runneth-over variety, largely informed by my firm belief that I am, and always have been, soundly in the middle-of-the-pack: not exceptionally skilled nor kind nor impressive, but reliably proficient in a moderate range of competencies. Positioning myself as average outputs two primary benefits. One, I steer clear of the behavioral deficiencies that tend to befall egoists, such as developing a holier-than-thou attitude or posting on Linkedin unironically. Two, I exploit positive psychology strategies by managing expectations in a way that ensures I am continually and happily surprised by the contents of my life, which tend to be on par with those of the typical middle-class American (ie. nice and comfortable). The combination of intentionally expecting very little while simultaneously enjoying a consistently charmed life helps my brain emit a maximal amount of happy chemicals. On pragmatic days, I refer to my unexpectedly good fortune as “privilege.” On spiritual days, I call it the “Universe,” or maybe even “God”.
I. JUICE
On his track “Fast” from the album Death Race for Love, the late, Chicago-born emo-rap artist Juice WRLD delivers the following lyric: “I’ve been living fast, fast, fast, fast.” Like Juice, I, too, have been living fast (fast, fast, fast). Over the past month or so, I have enjoyed a gratuitous amount of leisure activity. I’ve crested volcanoes, imbibed fancy beverages in fancy places, and participated in healthy levels of tomfoolery, much of which would make for excellent content fodder but cannot be shared online until I reach a protective level of wealth or status. I’ve been thoroughly doused by a free-flowing spigot of experience, and the privilege of that is not lost on me. That’s why I’m disappointed to admit that I’ve neglected to truly process (and thus, truly appreciate) the vast majority of it. Vitality Bowls
My first job was a part-time gig at an acai bowl chain called Vitality Bowls. I was a junior in high school and incommensurately excited about making $10 an hour, the California minimum wage at the time. It was honest, hard work, and I came home after every shift covered in flecks of blended fruit and smelling of mopping solution. It was here that I developed the worldview that every person should work in the service industry at least once to learn what it means to be a good customer, and by extension, a good person. At my peak, I could make an acai bowl from scratch in two minutes flat -- a mostly useless skill, but one I’m very proud of nonetheless. Thirty minutes before my flight to Fukuoka was scheduled to depart, it was canceled due to a snowstorm. The announcement was delivered swiftly and casually, as if the speaker was announcing a 20% off sale at the duty-free store, not dooming me to ten hours of miserable ground travel.
Aggrieved, self-pitying, and on the cusp of what eventually blossomed into a full-blown cold, I took a lap around the seating area and contemplated the transportation nightmare that had befallen me: a two-hour drive for naught, $100 in airport parking fees I could have avoided, an hour-long bus ride, an overpriced bullet train that cost more than my original flight, a newly mandatory subway ride to my now far-away accommodation. I braced myself for the unique psychological torture of wasting hours on various expensive, comparatively slow methods of transport when I had been expecting a zippy plane ride, a before-sunset arrival, and a quiet evening sipping artisanal green tea somewhere swank and dimly lit. Amidst my frustrated pacing, I spotted a girl around my age still sitting down. She appeared mildly confused by the general bustle, but not quite at the adequate level of alarm the situation called for. I could tell that she was a foreigner, like myself, and figured that she must not have registered the cancellation announcement. For a second, caught up in the seeming totality of my own drama, I considered letting her figure it out on her own. Then I decided against it, remembering all the times that others had taken pity on my cluelessness. |
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