As the post-grad honeymoon period fades, and I look drearily at the stack of letters from American Education Services (important to note the ‘RETURN SERVICE REQUIRED’ stamped on the front) I have come to the conclusion that it is time to start my life.
I can no longer put off the “What-Am-I-Going-To-Do”s and the “The-Only-Person-Responsible-For-My-Life-Is-Me”s with a can of cheap beer. This is partially because as a captial O-fficial Adult, I feel obligated to drink exclusively craft beer, and partially because I am anxious-excited to get the ball rolling on my real life.
However, for reasons we can blame on my star sign (or perhaps more accurately—my upbringing), I am plagued by an off-brand form of perfectionism—the kind that holds a gun to your head and says: “do it and do it exactly right and don’t you dare make even one tiny little mistake.”
So maybe you can see my problem? I want to go out and achieve all the things I’ve spent four years dreaming about, but I’m scared that I’ll mess up, and so here I am, sitting at a café with an imaginary gun pressed to my head scrolling through LinkedIn, but mostly messaging Gabe on Tinder who works at the AT&T store, loves dogs, and who might be shorter than me. Can’t tell from his pics.
It’s a fascinating life I’ve been leading post-grad, truly. Yes, my parents are very proud.
The morose truth is that honestly, all my life, truly, I really did believe, that I would be famous by now. Don’t ask me for what—never got to that part; I just always thought that at the extremely far off age of almost 23, I’d have lots of money, friends in high places, an apartment in New York and London, and enough creative energy to spearhead a cultural movement.
Now I know I am very interesting, cool, and popular, so it may come as a shock to you that I am, unfortunately, not famous.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m very VERY confident that I will be, obviously-of-course, but I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that in order for it to, I might need to spend more time on LinkedIn and less time talking about dogs with Gabe (who has just asked me for my snapchat. Swoon.)
The second truth I’ve come to learn over the past four years is that I spend potentially 65% of my day in my head. I experience the world like I’m reading a book about myself—noting symbols and clocking moments of potential foreshadowing. I’m dreamy, dazy, maybe even ditzy. I live in, “Mollyworld” as my parents used to say. The benefit of living on my own planet, is that I am self-reflective, empathetic, and good at understanding myself and others. I like to think that my it makes me a better writer, a better friend, and a better collaborator. However, the disadvantages of this habit—as you can imagine—are quite vast: I am always walking into oncoming traffic, I rack up the hot water bill taking extremely loooong showers, I confuse my day-dreams for reality, and perhaps the most inconvenient: I go with the flow.
However, go with the flow is just a disguise for indifference–a cushion for failure. It prevents passion and harbors stagnation. haven’t quite kicked this nonchalance, and I’m not sure I ever will, (especially considering that I had the word “COOL” quietly tattooed on my ankle in a rebellious moment sophomore year), but as they said in acting school, “Awareness is the seed of all change.”
I’m aware that I’m afraid of failing. I’m aware that I need to kill that fear. I’m aware… that Gabe is too short for me.
And most of those things I just listed, I can change.
So there are my truths. The lie is that since sitting in this café I never once went on LinkedIn. No, sir. It’s been Tinder and Facebook the whole time.