No. 105: Trash chair thoughts
I had a dentist appointment today, a 6-month routine check-up that remains one of the only true adult activities that I’m able to preform with relative regularity. Today’s was the first appointment I can remember from which I emerged with no bad news. I even got a toothbrush. Always say yes to free shit, especially from medical offices.
I wasn’t billed for my appointment, but I was told that I still owed $24, leftover from a miscalculation on a previous bill. I recently got a $36 refund from a different doctor that I apparently overpaid and they actually decided to let me know. The former happens a lot. The latter almost never does. I’m not the world’s worst record-keeper, but I would have never known if they hadn’t said something.
It’s always something.
(Which is one of those I’m-turning-into-my-parents phrases that I find myself not only saying without irony, but actually repeating as one of many aging millennial mantras.)
We’ve always been something.
I finished an article today for a tomorrow deadline that I’ve known about since April. I’ve always worked best under intense internal pressure and in my defense, I do think about things a great deal before I actually make any notable progress. I’m lucky to have patient and trusting coworkers, but I wish everyone had the space to operate at their own pace. I wish we could try all the options, live all the lives, pick and choose what works for us and discard the rest without holding onto it all of fear that nothing better will come along.
There’s always something.
I’m dog sitting for a week, and while it’s bad form to pick favorites, it’s hard to beat my current client. He’s an elderly gentleman so our walks are short and leisurely; I carefully measure out his food and count the correct number of join supplements, while neglecting my own upkeep. I picked up falafel after my dentist appointment, which is a perk of any appointment I make downtown; once a vet asked me if my cat was food motivated, and I said “Yes, very. Just like her mother.”
I fear the next something far less than the next nothing. Thankfully, I always have someone or something to occupy my time in between the Necessary Tasks. I recently finished all five season of Better Things in just a few weeks. The episodes are short so it wasn’t that much of a time commitment, one I started as I was still recovering from covid. I immediately fell in love with Pamela Adlon’s chaotic, thoughtful, and joyful world, and I was so sad to see it end, even if I know I can watch it again—and again (and I definitely will).
To say I already consider her an inspiration seems an inadequate way to describe the intensity at which I dive headfirst into every new interest. When I had enough distance to begin to dissect my past patterns of pop culture obsessions, I started to think my passions chose me. Sometimes that still feels true—I remember several occasions where a passing mention of Better Things piqued my interest. But it’s been on tv since 2017; what trick of the algorithm led me to press play on Adlon in 2022?
What if it all adds up to nothing?
While I used to waste time feeling envious of other people’s lives, I now see only infinite inspiration. There’s always something. Of course, I still get jealous and covet even that with which I know I’d be immediately dissatisfied (I read about mega-ranches in Montana this morning and found myself thinking “that sounds nice,” knowing I’d last five seconds living on the Plains, unless I was actually Ted Turner, but only when he was married to Jane Fonda in the ‘90s). But quitting social media did wonders for my ability to compare notes. Not that I’m living a life that is any way diminished—or really objectively better—than I was before I joined, or after I quit endlessly scrolling through instagram. It’s just more concentrated. Less scattered.
Instead of DMing my close friends funny memes, I text them funny memes. Instead of commenting on random people’s stories and posting my own for public consumption, I text or call my actual friends and family. It’s a lateral move, at best.
One of my greatest joys in life is to share things with people when something reminds me of them. It’s why the algorithm is so compelling: nothing is better than knowing that someone is thinking about you. Even better if they get it right. A successful connection is always something, even if it turns eventually out to be nothing. A friend gave me a postcard with an illustration of Angela Davis. The front says “A is for Angela” and on a post-it, they added “and also for Allie!” They’re not wrong. Allie also likes alliteration and people who make obvious connections. And knows that not all connections are so obvious. I don’t think that’s the point.
Before I find something, it finds me, or more likely, a combination of both, the desire for connection always feels the same, even if the method method of delivery rarely is. It doesn’t matter how you get there; if nothing is waiting for you when you get there, what’s the point?
It will always be something to me.