Rantings, Vol. I. The banality of adulthood.
July Fifteenth Today was irritatingly suboptimal, beginning with a jog during which I was shamefully aware of my own restraint—exerting only enough effort to ensure I’d have leftover energy to make the bed while the shower heated. I attempted egg whites and vegetables in the air fryer (a whim I now regret), which resulted in nothing but wasted time and a dirty dish. I settled, as one often does, for toast—carbohydrate comfort crowned with various toppings, all impoverished of protein, none really satisfying.
I drove myself to the Tax Office (missing a turn, naturally) to transfer the title of my Nissan—legally owned still by my deceased grandmother (who interestingly never learned to drive)—onto my name. The wait, blessedly, was short. The charge, however, was not: one hundred dollars for a year long delay of which I am guilty. The clerk delivered the final insult with a perfunctory smile. You see, my paperwork may yet be rejected for a technical error of, of course, my own creation. Unfortunately, I'd have to wait a dreaded 2-3 weeks for my potential rejection letter to come in the mail like some aspiring writer (ha-ha). Public offices like these are temples to the banality of adulthood. They feel like nightmares of our own making: endless, beige, and entirely without metaphor and romance.
I drove north—thirty long minutes—to the dreaded city, whose air I share unwillingly with my ex-husband, for the sake of a hospital-mandated mask fitting. Of course, I overlooked the correct address in the email, I arrived on time to the adjacent but incorrect building. By the time I deduced my mistake and presented my case to the correct office, it was too late and I was promptly turned away. An hour in total of driving in ardent traffic for nothing. The masks given to staff at the bedside, I might painfully note, is chosen not for the health of the worker but for the economy of the hospital—may the gods of OSHA weep.
In my attempts to mollify this quiet fury, I tried to remember that all I’d wasted was time and perhaps a bit of money—both of which, for now (save for a catastrophic event robbing me of either), I can afford. My rage soured into self-loathing, and then into humiliation, for behaving like a capricious child.
In between all this, I finished The Secret History by Donna Tartt. I tore through it—devoured, really. It tickled many of my sensibilities: dark academia, tall and arrogant pedants, casual references to Plath and Dostoevsky, and a plot not unlike Lolita. It even included a murder.
But the final chapters collapsed the beautiful myth I had allowed myself to believe. Henry—my favorite—was not a god, nor a genius, nor a mystery. He was simply a selfish, bratty boy who read too many books and spent too little time being loved. The narrator’s world unraveled with him. Perhaps that was the final bleak disappointment of the day.
And now it's dawned on me that I have no one with whom to discuss it with - no one to consult. No friend to even recommend it to who I think would enjoy it.
Tomorrow, I return to work—a single shift, preemptively dreaded. I feel the impulse to be curt, pedantic, even cold, like Henry. But I am no mystery at work. They know my business, my relationship, my opinions. I fear I am no longer even particularly competent, having taken too many steps back in recent weeks. I worry I’ll make a fool of myself—not as a darkly brilliant misanthrope, but simply as a sour apple.
Perhaps I’ll try something softer. Kind, respectful, distant. I must make the most of it, you see, I consider them my 'socializing days'.
Speaking of, my promised is away socializing. Top golf, I believe, with big time Amazon bosses and other blue collar folk. I am here, watching the cat and the dog fight—my social circle, my comrades, the only witnesses to my solitude. And I’m not even particularly fond of the dog.