GO Quarter Life Crisis

CHANGING DREAMING INTO DOING. It's about motivation. CONSTANT MOTIVATION. About GOALS, consistency, and keeping at it. About falling down, dusting off, and getting back to it. About quitting, BUT getting back. About planning, structure, time-management, and a bunch of other things I'm learning as I go.

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We can't feel entitled to politeness

Own. Yours Truly. GoQuarterLifeCrisis

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The Sinking Stomach

As always, I return with the need to resolve a watered-down panic attack. In an age that people profess advice and help, tutorial v-logs and blogs are the rage, as are self-help “manuals”, here I am, waving the flag of confusion to the world!

The source: a sinking stomach. ‘Sinking’ isn’t quite accurate. But I’m simply unable to find any word to match the feeling. Butterflies seem like the obvious choice, by cliche and convention. But it doesn’t feel anything like the cheery and colorful creatures. Maybe a moth is more like it.

I have been meaning to make a more difficult call with newly-acquired members of my family. I know delaying it doesn’t make it easier. Nor does it diminish the walking-on-nails aspect of the relationship. Inversely, I’m only restless with an impending sense of doom. With this situation beating ripples on my nervous system, another matter presents itself.

I threw a party for a close friend, bae kinda friend. While I was the prime mover of this party, a bunch of friends came together to throw this party. The expenses got overboard and ever since, I have been at cross-roads as to the right way to go about the expense-sharing. I initiated the proceedings. Another friend screwed up the estimation, despite having been there prior. As consenting adults, was everyone to blame for not being wary of the expense at the venue, where there was an option to modify their expense? Or was I to feel partially guilty for a 70-100% increase in expenditure? The planner showed no remorse. 

The participants took no responsibility. But then again, perhaps they were not being meddlesome and/ or didn’t anticipate such a difference. Note to self: for next time, at the cost of being the stingy one, be thorough and shameless in early investigation. Furthermore, I spent some more because the friend wanted to treat us to something and I couldn’t let her. Now, to ask for this extra, or not? Decisions, decisions..

Of course, this is an uncomfortable position to be in. But at the end of the day, what’s the point in a nauseous stomach? The call must be made. And a calmer stomach sure helps.

Add a thought bubble with poverty and corruption, this is hardly a crisis! Why the upset stomach? Calm down you, calm down! Be strong, at least in the littlest of problems. You need a stronger stomach. Go get you one.

Epilogue 

As always, writing is my shrink! I felt better even a third through writing this. I decided to man up, and call my people the next day. Went alright! As always, worse in imagination. 

On the second count, I chose the gallant route after a misstep. An hour after putting it out on the account share for the added expense, I panicked. I started writing this piece. A half hour of writing helped in desilting my muddied a little. 12 hours later, I issued a statement on the group, indirectly redacting my prior account-share, on the grounds of having had a great time, courtesy of the group turning up. And on this count, requesting the privilege of the extra expense being on me. Grandiose, yes. But I couldn’t see another way out. Interestingly enough, I received no dissent. No thank you either. But I got out of it feeling much better, like I’d done the right thing, the more honorable thing in light of people relationships, even if some bucks short. So, that’s that.

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The First Experience is the Perfect Setup for Disappointment

The first great experience of something, especially as a child or an adolescent, is the perfect set-up for disappointment. Once you’ve come out of that experience with such a glowing account and rave reviews, any subsequent exposure to that same experience just cannot be that good. 

What’s the solution: loose the ecstasy of a unique experience, or temper yourself to not feel too much joy?

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An Event - A Culmination

I’d recently spoken about an event or a big goal, the exhaustion from just being overwhelmed, rather than the work that goes into it.

Well, the event is complete. The day went well(, thankfully). It doesn’t always. Sometimes we’re left a tad disappointed. I was very happy this time: great guest turnout, great course of events, good food that everyone enjoyed, a community participation in the arrangements. The day started at 9am and ended at 12am: a 15hr-marathon. I remained high-energy with minimal need for food this whole time. 

But then, came the crash. The following day, with a solid 12hrs of sleep in between, I decide on a chilled out day. I fled from home, not wanting to let the clean-up haunt me: escapism in true form. I thought I’d chill out at a Starbucks, attend to some chilled out tasks like blogging or something. But I remained jumpy the whole day, like a sugar-high, but with zero energy, concentration, or focus. I was constantly restless, and jumpy. With constant flashbacks from the previous day’s happenings. 

Of course, I was alright the day after that. But it’s still one weird day where that one particular day of the event feels like a lifetime, and the day after feels surreal and far-flung from regular reality that was just one day old.

I couldn’t rest, even if I wanted to. Does this happen to you guys? What do you do to get over it?

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Authority

Authority, as a word, most immediately evokes negative connotations. We see authority in every segment of life, as an almost essential part of every institution. When I say institution, I mean everything - starting from family to marriage to schools and organizations and industries.

It’s perennially a cat-on-the-wall situation with authority. How far do we need authority? How much central control and regulation do we need? When does it transition to domination? 

The unfortunate part is that authority cows us. We capitulate into submission much more easily, when authority is thrown into the mix. A kind of diffidence starts possessing us. It’s tempting to relinquish difficult decisions to authority. There’s a 2-way flip about this. One side is, it’s easier for one to transfer the burden of responsibility and crucial decision-making rather than be insecure about the outcome. The grass is often green on the other side, the other side where those in authority love to make decisions, and make them for everyone. After all, isn’t that what authority is? For people in authority, this perhaps boosts their pride and confidence.

This brings to mind something I read in the holy text of the Hindus, the Bhagavad Gita: ‘All evil comes wrapped up as pride’. How is authority evil, you may ask? Evil does seem a tad too strong, I agree. But I’d rather not temper this quote for fear of spoiling misrepresenting it. And by evil, I mean anything bad. After all, the world is just two simple concepts: good & bad. Discreet. Binary. 1 & 0. If the thoughts justify it, that’s what counts, even in authority positions.

How I wish there was an authority that could answer my unending queries!

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Thinking is Tragedy. Action is Comedy.

Anon.

Definitely an over-used proverb. But can’t be truer.

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Birthday Privilege

I call it a privilege to have a memorable birthday. A few years back, I had one such birthday. For a change, I felt privileged to turn a year older. I was fortunate and privileged to have great friends who care about making a person happy, about making a day special. It’s hard. I know, you know, it’s hard. It’s so easy to let things slide and go easy on the effort for a birthday, as the years go by, especially as one grows older. It’s so common to settle into a beaten “birthday-routine” and feel justified.

Birthdays have, very often, been D-Days rather than B-Days. This was especially true when I was a younger, immature kid, frequently spending my days in self-pity about a sheltered home environment. By fate or by sheer coincidence, those days would always turn out a little extra rough. I’d end up feeling bad. I would wonder if there was a hidden message in it. However ludicrous it sounds, I would brood that it was a reminder that ‘sad is the day that one steps into the world’. I would console myself that it’s a good thing to not get caught up in the materialistic pursuits of the world. After all, how does one trivial birth matter, in the eternal cycle of births, deaths, and rebirths?

There had been another friend’s birthday celebration a few days earlier and I had remembered thinking, “Gosh! I’d feel terrible if my birthday was like that”. This birthday that I started off telling you about, I had braced myself as best as I could, for a usual D(sorry, B)-Day. No expectations, with my then-boyfriend’s plans to come see me having been cancelled for practical reasons. 

Any amount of mental conditioning can’t quell the childish vagaries of the mind. There’s always a remainder of childlike hope and excitement. But for a change, the child in me was satisfied. I experienced what a privilege this was - the privilege of having amazing friends. I don’t believe that good people inherently have/ beget good friends. I’m not an idealist. Ergo, friends = privilege.

The 3 of my closest friends had arranged a party for me. One of them had traveled quite a bit to come see me. I went through the motions - cutting cake, listening to a birthday song (which for many people, is the only time they sing), have the cake smeared on my face and the cake smear chase that ensues, the dancing and singing. But there was one key difference: the merriment and genuine affection. I think I was glowing that night. I certainly did NOT expect to feel THIS nice. The underlying current of goodwill that day was, and is, such a privilege.

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... all the bitterness of abstinence and penitence and self-abnegation.

2666 by Roberto Bolano, 5. The Part about Archimboldi

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Back from when the Breakup & Blogging Came Together - Part 2

Entries from an old journal.

This is a typical chick-flick style beginning. It was the first of many things - her first journey on an airplane, her first trip outside her country. She was full of dreams, ready to embark on a starry-eyed journey for an education abroad technically. But truth to be told, it was for all reasons but that.

These true motivations were fairly cliched, but far from trivial or trifling. She was impatient to come out of a sheltered environment. She was desperate to take off by herself and find her own footing. (Honest, free-flowing language is so hard to come by.)

She wanted independence. She gave empty assurances to her father about the chance of tuition scholarship. All she knew was that was determined - she knew she was a toughie, if she set her mind to something. She could manage. Or so she thought.

She landed in a new country with a motley bunch of guys, not the most sociable, and a girl who more than compensated for it. She instantly struck a chord with her and that was not usually easy for her. So with a pleasant journey behind her - perhaps the first of her illusions - she started a new life.

She made a customary got-here-safe call back home and settled comfortably at her friend’s place; this, in spite of the fact that she had no housing yet. Thankfully, the rightful occupant of her temporary refuge was yet to arrive. It worked out quite conveniently. She sank into a deep, peaceful slumber, comfortably unaware of her friend spending the night, suffering in intense homesickness and consequent tears.

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Back from when the Breakup & Blogging Came Together - Part 1

More vignettes from an old journal.

I sit in Starbucks, the proverbial American writer, waiting for my anger and sorrow to transform into a path-breaking, yet powerful form of revenge/ retribution, like dozens of strong women before me have been inspired, and whom I have been inspired by.

Like so many others, I tell myself the most motivational stuff. But that gets me even more depressed, as I invariably let myself down.

As I sit by the window overlooking the not-so-calm waters of the Hudson river and the ever-magnificent skyline of downtown Manhattan, I ask myself what I should be writing about - either the story of how I got myself here, or the deeper philosophical questions that I have to find answers for. I sip the small double chocolaty chip frappuccino with whipped cream that I have allowed myself, on this occasion of my immense, self-consuming self-pity, content with this piece of literature I’ve come up with.

Maybe because narrating my story is so much more mindless than setting myself up against some confoundingly complex questions. I am going to adopt the escapist approach of story-telling, hoping that it will unravel some answers along the way, since seeing things from a third-person standpoint does miracles in unveiling the stubborn delusory smog that the ‘I/ me/ myself’ angle brings.

Conducive music on reality and life playing in the background, allows me to to take you back to mid-August, 2009. An average girl (, average in nearly EVERY way imaginable - appearance, intelligence, outlook, broad-mindedness... basically you name it, and average it is) boarded the JFK-bound flight from a developing country. 

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Is there something such as goodness in the world? Merely codependency for one's greater good.

Yours truly...

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The Exhaustion of Being OverWhelmed

Oh! The exhaustion of being overwhelmed... Each time I have a large event/ deadline at hand, I get tired from the sheer overwhelmingness of it, not from doing anything about it! 

The logical solution is to start acting on the task(s) and slowly but steadily conquer the whole, but being overwhelmed, keeps me away, while tiring me out as if I have actually done much about it!

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Aah! The embarrassment of old writing assignments

Reading my old writing assignments and very embarrassed. I sound so extremely childish, silly, and whiny. I’ve been so sour. I can’t believe the things I’ve put on paper, that too not in a private journal, but for assignments for a writing class - to actually be read by people. 

But, oh gosh! What am I saying. This whole blog has been such an outlet. I’m terrified of going back and reading it. I dread the things I’ve said and how I’ve said them.

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Back from When I Started Journal-Keeping

Continued.. Entries worth keeping from a rediscovered journal, from about 4 years back. This one is from when the initial seeds for a blog were sown and I penned the first article. Hey, look! Back then I’ve disagreed with the idea of a blog. Now I’m 100 posts strong.

So PILOT PROGRAM

Disclaimer: drama/ exaggeration - I whine & dine in style

I wonder what I did so differently about today. It’s like God listened to my prayers and answered my penance of 2 decades: to grant me a couple of extra hours in the day.

It’s not like I did anything special. I woke up after 4 quarter-hour snoozes of the alarm, therefore having to ditch the gym. I gave a break to breakfast, scrambled to office in haste, lunchbox in tow. I got a decent amount of work done, enough to not feel guilty, got off in 8 hours, attended to something I had to, and got back 2 hours ahead of when I usually get home, dinner done. I get done early enough to be able to vacuum my poor dear room, that had been crying out loud for attention, for over 2 weeks now.

Now I’m sitting tucked into my bed, doing something I ABSOLUTELY love - W.R.I.T.I.N.G., writing without a care in the world. I realized countless times, only to conveniently forget soon enough that a deadline a day keeps laziness at bay. My most recent score was my friend pushing me into auditing a ‘Personal Essay Writing’ course during my Masters’ degree* in Science.

After all my rapturous declarations, with a flourish of my hand, that English was my thing and writing, my calling, he decided to actually get me to DO something about it. And thus, I landed up in a class, the best thing that happened to me during my post-graduate education.

As long as I was in the class, I’d keep writing since I was bound by assignments. Once I got off the hook, I gave myself excuses like a research thesis and a job hunt. Once I got a job, I took a good 3-month settling-down period before I could put down this laborious monologue of mine.

That brings me to my current quandary. In all good conscience, I should write (privately). I know enough about myself that that’s not going to happen. The only natural solution is blogging. Everybody does it these days. But for some reason, I’ve never really been taken with the idea.

P.S.: Imagine being a feminist-fanatic, trying to bring in a female term for the degree - Mistress of Science. O My God!!! Sounds hilarious, yet twisted. A little degrading, actually. Something like an evil seductress or something, a secret affair with science. Well, maybe science got bored of its geeks and nerds, and wanted the much-needed feminine touch.

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BLAST FROM THE PAST

Here’s another vignette from my journal, where I’ve discussed getting started with a blog - debating between the pros and cons of blogs, Facebook statuses, and Facebook Notes. I don’t know if you even know the Facebook Note feature. It’s almost entirely obsolete, meant to serve something like a blog. And boy, 4 years from this point, am I glad to have opted for a blog!

“Too presumptuous”! That’s a classic. Laughing my eyes out at that. 😂

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Blurb from a Breakup

I found one of my diaries from the past, entries immediately after my first breakup. It’s perhaps a good idea to remove the paper trail. So I want to get this documented before the paper is discarded to decompose. Here’s a piece I’ve written up with remarkable clarity, about 4yrs back.

REDISCOVERY (ME OF THE 1900s vs. ME OF THE 2000s)

What was I? ‘I’ like the ‘I’ of the past.

Back by about 8yrs, I liked the image that I had - a super-introvert who was intellectually clear. I cried myself to sleep everyday, and absolutely hated my life. All I longed for was independence. 

Now I have quite a bit of independence, I’ve become fairly outgoing, but look at me - a total mess in my head.

Where is the me of the past who had enough time to metaphorize absolutely everything that came into my path? Time has warped me out gradually, to an extent that I have no clue about anything in life - yes, agreed, nobody does (or so they say) - but what I’m talking about is that I don’t even have a well-defined idea or opinion about anything.

The me of the past was calm, collected, and achieved quite a few things, and had the upper hand at this relationship thingy. Now I’m the one who’s despo and nagging. 

I really need to get back to what I was. 

I used to figure out who I am, what I think, where I want to take my life, and who I want to spend it with - get somewhere with my writing, do some singing.. and then we’ll see.

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The Infallibility of Love

As I’m in my first few years of wedded life, “newly-married”, I keep thinking, wishing almost prayerfully, of how my future years will turn out. Based on the current love and relationship we share, my spouse and I, I can’t see how things can go wrong - bitter, resentful, or angry. But then again, I see so many people, ranging from celebrities to the common man to philosophers, go wrong in their marriages. Things turn awry over time, just a matter of how long it takes to get there. But then again, there are a few, very few, couples who seem to hold it together and remain happy in mutual company. My confidence in my own marriage is misleading. Surely, all these people must have felt the same way going into one. But things just meander and turn distasteful.

This fear makes me second-guess my actions and reactions to different situations. But then again, that holds me back from being natural, honest, or bold and confident. 

The webs in my head go round and round. round and round. round and round. The wheels of life go round and round, all through the town!

The parents on the bus go shh, shh, shh. shh, shh, shh. shh, shh, shh. No one wants to answer, so hush, hush, hush, all through the town!

The signals on the bus go blink, blink, blink. blink, blink, blink. blink, blink, blink. No clear answers, blink, blink, blink, all of the time!