Special

As a kid, I knew that I was special. And I was going to live a special life. 

As an adult, I have weekends like this one, and I start to get really scared.

Nothing really happened to me this weekend. Which doesn’t mean that I sat at home alone, it just means that I had four whole days off work to mobilize, to have an adventure, to do something out of the ordinary, and the things I did were really ordinary instead. I went to some bbqs. I woke up in my own bed every morning. I went to the gym. I did some work. It was fine. It was… fine. But I’m not sure if it was special. In fact, I’m a little terrified that it wasn’t. 

I’ve always had huge expectations of life. I want to be transported by it - by my meals, my vacations, sex, by my morning cup of coffee. I remember this as a child, this rush of presence everywhere I went. Wonder at everything. Easy joy. No judgments. Huge expectations, that always felt met. That feels like what life should be to me. But I’m noticing this nagging horrible trend, that when I get used to things, they stop transporting me. So my life has this way of becoming less special. What the fuck. 

I’m an O.G optimist. I wear feather earrings. I bought a kimono this weekend. I am genuinely moved by my morning gratitude lists. But there is a deep part of me that is dissatisfied with my life when it fails to deliver highs, and I’m scared shitless about it, because my life is only going one direction. And I don’t want to miss it. 

But am I crazy, or is life sometimes smaller than I thought it was? Isn’t there gray? And mundanity? And stale-ness here sometimes? Isn’t there?

I’m terrified that my future spouse and I will one day get tired of each other. This is so scary to me, actually, that I’m sort of willfully ignoring it. Like, I’m sort of just assuming, against all odds, that I will be the one person in history who will not grow sexually bored in their marriage. No, no. I’ll have pissed-off biting kisses, and pressing tender shoulders, and hands the back of my neck forever. I don’t think I can live my life without it. It sounds like a tragedy. So I won’t. I’ll figure it out. I have to right? I mean. I knew I’d live a special life. So I’ll have that. I must. It’s life. Its huge. I won’t be broken like that. I won’t stop noticing. But then I have a weekend where nothing happens. When I notice that so much of adulthood is necessarily mundane. Or just okay. And I don’t know yet how to sidle up to that; to the very adult fact that sometimes life doesn’t live up to my expectations. 

Where do I put that feeilng? Next to the Sailing Around the World cabinet? On the bottom shelf behind that box of Charities in Need of Volunteers Worldwide? Or upstairs in the Dance All Night On Drugs attic? Jesus! All the fucking options, all the places that need attention, and all the parks to visit and stars to look at. All the hugs to give. And I went to some bbqs. And I did a little bit of work. It makes me want to explode. And Facebook. 35 different places that I could be that second. 10,000 people to connect with and know. Life is so big shouldn’t we feel it, all the time? Shouldn’t we be awake and alive and doing new things all the time? 

I don’t know. Except that we don’t. I don’t know anyone who does. We all seem to do pretty much the same things, even if those things are partying our faces off all the time. I bet that gets boring too. At a certain point I think we all probably just have to show up, and be with what’s here. Our jobs and our friends. Our routines. So maybe I’m not the only one who feels chronically hungry, and a little scared. I bet you all feel bored sometimes too, and afraid. I hope you do. To be honest. 

And at least there’s SFactor; grimy and intimate and weird. At least there’s sirens and gears, and straps across my stomach, and fabric to rip myself out of. At least I have a place to help me hold all of it, is what I mean, because I’m learning that I can’t be everywhere I want to be every second I want to be there (FUCK) and who knows if happiness would be out there anyway, instead of here in my dance class that feels like fighting and kissing and screaming at the same time. Or even better, here waking up in my own bed. And my own routine. Here in my life. Where nothing really happened this weekend. 

Sometimes I feel like a caged animal inside my own life. And then sometimes it’s nourishing and wild, and so so exciting. Sometimes it’s photoshoots, and vacations, and weddings, and getting hit on. Sometimes it’s not. It’s pretty normal. Then it’s not. Then it’s pretty normal again.

I don’t know how to do this right. How to live. Maybe it is supposed to be huge like I thought growing up, and this is a phase I’ll move out of. Maybe it’s huge already without me doing a single thing. I don’t know what “it” is, but this urge I put so much stock in, to avoid the mundane, to have love that is bigger, experience that is louder, a summer where I experience a ton of new things, seems to be quietly killing the joy in what is here in front of me, and that doesn’t feel like “it” either, although I have a lot of compassion for those big dreams and the big things they sometimes drive me to do.

I think there must be a way to want to eat the entire earth AND be satisfied with whatever portion of it happens to be on your plate that day. 

And look at that. 30 minutes left in Labor Day. I guess it wasn’t so bad. Tomorrow I’ll wake up in my own bed again and start over. And I won’t know what’s coming.

…Which is pretty special, actually. The heart, maybe of what makes it special. That something else always will unfold.

As my friend Wendy is always telling me, the gray space is part of the painting, in the end. A part that perhaps I don’t need to judge. 

Sure. I can crack my heart open to that, I think. 

I just hope I’m turning into a masterpiece. Because this weekend really did feel kind of boring.