Once sufficiently crisped and sweaty, I realized there was an arduous reality ahead of me, namely a Spanish tile floor, heated by 100 degree weather and blistering sunshine. In short, that shit was hot. Scorching.
I stuck my feet in the pool to prepare and contemplated my plan of attack. The road seemed helpless. I considered yelling to the house for a pair of sandals to rescue me. Instead I took a step.
I spotted a patch of shade in front of me and I sprinted. The soft spots of my feet were on fire, but my callouses, those gross, thick patches of skin developed from years of high heel abuse and walking around Manhattan, protected me slightly. I made it to the shade, took a breath, and spotted the next shady oasis. I ran there. Eventually, after making frequent stops along a very indirect path, I made it inside.
This probably seems like the most inconsequential first world problem to share. It is. But, to me, it also seems a lot like life. My friends and I are very worried all the time. Worried we’re wasting our twenties; worried we’re not in the right job; not in the right city; not in the right relationship. We’re suffocated by anxiety. We feel like we’re running a marathon with no idea where the finish line is. It’s probably not a sensation limited to the twenties, but of course this is all I know so far.
The point is, even though my destination seemed impossible to reach, I didn’t have to run all the way to the house. I just had to run to the shade—the closest visible spot that made sense. I only had to go it a bit at a time. Common sense and callouses—the blessings of a life full of mistakes—got me home.Read More... →