I woke up at 1:00pm today, which in other words–according to my mother–is a clear indicator that I am suffering from depression. Lucky for her, (and me, I suppose) I’m not depressed, I’m just sleeping a lot more than I’d like to on a regular basis with the side effect of fatigue and drowsiness during the day and the residual effect of the inability to fall asleep at night followed by intense cyclical thoughts and anxiety induced by heavy list making. But really, no big deal. I’ve been taking online classes this summer, so the lack of timed structure has resulted in the lack of care for structure, in which case I’ve allowed myself to sleep through all hours of the morning and roll out of bed feeling self-hatred and guilt for wasting half the day. Every night I go to sleep with the intention of waking up at 9am when my phone alarm bangs bongo drums in my ear, which if you ask me every human being should just love waking up to. Somehow, the sounds of what was intended to be the pitter patter of angel’s hands on silken covered golden drum sets sounds like a parade of drunk assholes stampeding my bedroom. So I snooze.
What, you might ask, did you do to deserve to listen to me complain about the irritability that is my alarm and the subsequent issue I have which is overslumber? Okay, I’ll tell you! This morning I woke up with boogies in my eyes–that right there is enough to ruin a day, but I’ll keep going. My kitchen cupboard had no plates or utensils, since apparently every time I try to run the dishwasher it decides to take a siesta, so I had to eat my pancake off a paper towel like it was an elephant ear at the fair. But it wasn’t. It was the same pancake I’ve made every morning for the last two weeks since all I have to eat are rolled oats, eggs, and whey protein, and that’s about all you can make with those ingredients. I made a big pot of coffee and wasted half of it on the first cup when I smelled it and realized the sour soy milk I’ve been drinking has finally produced chunks, and while I’m okay with slightly expired I’m not okay with eating soy babies. When I poured my second cup, thinking I’d at least get one out of the pot, it filled my cup about 1/3 of the way. And then I got a parking ticket.
Alright, fine. I should have gotten a job this summer. I tried (ish) to find some work, but I was concerned with not knowing the level of schoolwork I would have, and knowing myself and my uber procrastination skills (oh boy what do you think we’re doing now do ya? Do ya think maybe miss Rachel has some…mmm…studying to do?) I was afraid I’d get too involved in work and neglect school, and ergo not finish my degree on time, which I made a promise to myself and my future employer I would do. So, I prioritized, lazitized, and got my school on. At first I was very diligent and rose promptly at 9:00am with sparkles in my eyes and a twinkle in my heart. After whipping together a delightful breakfast I would comfortably arrange myself in my living room, lit ever so beautifully by the summer sun shining through our balcony window. I spent the day working away, my fingers tippity tapping on the keys of my trusty Macintosh, my brain ticking away and absorbing each and every word my eyes scanned upon the pages of my schoolbooks. I allowed myself timely breaks for meals and intermittent text messaging to ensure the friends and family I was busy working away the hours. Come 4 or 5:00 I would prep a pre-workout meal, get changed into my full lulu-lemon gear, lace up my brand new Sauconys, pop the headphones for my iPhone 4g into my ears and climb safely into my reliable 2012 Chevy Malibu and head to the gym for a well rewarded workout. The days went on like this, glorious in their productivity and splendor, all the while me feeling like a total Boss and throwing dollar bills I didn’t own at Fage yogurts and six packs of beer. And then one day…
I know what you’re thinking. Poor little white girl with her fancy appliances and gym memberships and classy beer. Well let me show you how poor little white girl I can really be; get ready for some boo frickidy hoos right here, since this is the only place I’m allowed to preach my poor little white girl moments and then sit back and go “phew, I’m so lucky I’m just a little white girl with a sleeping problem.” I was feeling so ballin’ my first couple weeks of school that I blew my existing money on those lavish meals I made myself, drove my car around blowing gas like I had my own god damn oil source, lost two pairs of headphones and cracked the screen of my 15th iPhone, watched my trusty Macintosh die before my eyes, and sloshed through mud in my new sneaks to the point where they look just as scrubby as the pair they replaced, (don’t worry mom, they still work as good as new) and now I don’t have enough money to buy myself food for breakfast, replace my soy milk, get legitimate dish-washing detergent, pay my parking ticket, replace my phone, power wash my shoes and the lulu lemons I wear to the gym every day, or buy new underwear. (I know the underwear is completely off topic, but I really need some new underwear.)
Redundant city, Rachel, we get it. You don’t have any money. That’s because you don’t have a job. But it sounds like you have a pretty fucking nice car, a coffee machine, a laptop, a god damn place to sleep, and you still have your gym membership, so I don’t see what your snooty little white girl problem is. Well I’ll tell ya. (We’ve heard that before…shut up and let me yap.) My problem is that I subconsciously feel responsible (or irresponsible) for not being self-sufficient enough to fix the issue at hand, which is money. On the other hand, there’s that rebel-fuck-the-man part of me that says I don’t need fancy shit; I have a place to sleep, I have some food to eat, and I’m totally living just fine. My problem is I go back and forth. I can’t make up my mind about which lifestyle or outlook I want, so I end up buying fancy shit that needs the support of a higher income. If I really made the decision to stick it to the man, I wouldn’t have replaced my dead Macintosh, and I would still be using a cell phone circa 2001. I wouldn’t have a gym membership; I’d workout outside. There is a part of me that likes things. I like being able to check the weather on my phone, and I like wearing cute pants to the gym. Guilty. But there’s also a part of me that feels like I don’t need any of this shit, and I find myself wanting to get rid of all of it and be a nomad.
I think this society demands and invites want over need; In a world (and by world I mean the small one of the great ‘ol USA) where everything has a quick fix and there are deadlines and time constraints and everyone has the ability to finish tasks immediately and conveniently, I believe I would find myself lost behind without the “necessary” products. However if I lived in one of the small cities I visited in China where no one has a schedule and the Internet is PG, I wouldn’t feel like I needed the objects I want in this particular world. It would be a slower life. I teeter totter between wanting the fast and slow, and I feel myself slowing down these past couple weeks. Everything feels too fast; like the world around me is speeding ahead of me and I’m not inclined to keep at pace; perhaps I’m sleeping in from guilt or perhaps I’m hoping if I don’t wake up I won’t have to start moving just yet, because I’m craving something slower.
Or maybe I’m just sleeping in, and its me Rachel, over thinking the world.