Adulthood As Performance Art
I am a failed actress. This is not something I think about often, unless someone happens to bring up the years directly following college in casual conversation, and then I find myself having to mutter that dreaded phrase "one time I was in an off-off-off broadway play about evil Santa Clauses, and also I slept on an air mattress in my father’s apartment for ten straight months.”
"Oh, and also it was a loft! And he lived in the same loft, too!"
Yeah...not awkward at all.
But, thankfully, due to that potent cocktail of being both quite bad at acting and not really that invested in it, that period, for me, ended a long time ago.
Or so I had thought! Because lately, I find myself acting again. And this time, it’s….weirdly different? Because it's just for me and I'm actually sort of liking it? Does it sound like I’m schizophrenic and/or have gotten into “experimental” films?
Read on!
You see, I've found myself performing again because I've been doing a lot of thinking about adulthood.* (Before you break out in hives over my use of this word, please see the disclaimer at the bottom of this post.) But being an adult is super weird, right? My main takeaways thus far are:
a) That thing happens everyone tells you will happen, where your body starts to change on the outside but you feel exactly the same way you always have on the inside, and the next thing you know you're buying a Groupon to get your grey hair dyed at a "salon" next to the Verizon shop in Downtown Crossing, even though you're pretty sure you just watched Anchorman high at the Dartmouth Mall last week.
2) When you spot two tweens sprinting through Logan Airport and shrieking at the top of their lungs as they simultaneously snapchat one anther, it crosses your mind that someone probably needs to throw Sbarro fountain soda at both their heads and maybe that person should be you.
and lastly
d) you find yourself maybe wanting to change a few things.
You know, some habits, some patterns, a few things that you’re like, "Well, I’m an adult now. This whole thing has gotta to stop. ("This whole thing" can be anything from not drinking three margaritas on a Wednesday night to “getting more involved with local politics.” Both seem equally important?)
The problem, of course, is then that unruly question of how rears its head. How do we change? And I don’t know about you, but that can all get a little daunting, no matter how many times I hit the refresh button on the BE page of the GOOP website. Plus, it’s, just, like, generally not fun. Like who wants to only eat spinach and still be crushed to death by the stack of self-help books that are mounting on the side of their bed just because they had to hesitate the other day when naming both of their state senators and they forgot to mail their college roommate a birthday card?
Not me!
Not to mention, it doesn’t really work.
Or, at least for me it doesn't. This is mainly because I have fraud syndrome. Fraud syndrome is when you know what you need to do in order to become “more grateful” and “very present," but deep down you feel like you’re just not naturally someone who wants to be nicer to their mother/get up at six a.m. and do yoga/vacuum under the bed “just because”/go after their dreams in a way that’s healthy and realistic and not draining to the people around them. And so the whole thing starts to feel foolish and disingenuous to even begin with. Like if it’s not natural, it can’t be real.** I mean, this is America! Trying is so passé. (And, yes, I know at this point you either have no idea what the hell I’m talking about—in which case, probably stop reading now—or maybe you’re nodding your head along with me, because you too feel basically like Bernie Madoff anytime you attempt to crack open a book on the Middle East and/or start oil painting again, but somehow you just always end up half-watching a 30 ROCK rerun while trying to determine if these 40% off pink suede mules on anntaylor.com “make sense for you right now.” (Lock me up, Ruth, I'm guilty of a wasted-time emotional ponzi scheme!)
But that’s why I am so excited to share with you that I have found a solution to this problem! Forget trying to improve you, just full-on pretend you’re somebody else! I call it Adulthood as Performance Art. And I think it might actually work.
Now, to be clear, what I’m espousing is not actually full on schizophrenia—like don’t start wearing sleeveless sheaths and giving lectures about the importance of urban gardening and making everyone call you Michelle Obama (though that sounds fun). What I'm talking about is more of a ”channeling” of someone else's essence, if you will. To get the engines going in whatever department you feel you need a good tune-up in. (I'm sorry, am I making a car pun? I don't even drive!) But, yeah, all you have to do is take the specific thing you’re "working on," pretend you've been Freaky Friday-d into the body of a person you admire at executing said thing, and then you're off to the races!
Below is the current roster of the folks I'm channeling...
TECHNOLOGY ADDICTION
K, so, I don't want to bore you with my love/hate relationship with my iPhone and all things internet (jk probs gonna write a post about it next week) but needless to say, shit is f*cked. I read somewhere once that the first step to dealing with this "issue" is to just initially monitor how much time per day you're actually spending surfing the internet/checking twitter/scrolling through instagram/mindlessly refreshing facebook/dry heaving at CNN updates, and then, once you know what number you're working with, you can really determine what your goal is in cutting back. You know, "once you're aware." Problem is, I know if I actually did that, I'd fall into a deep depression Girl, Interrupted style, because it's probably like, um, ALL DAMN DAY? And so it's, basically, like, the internet is my life? YEESH, Donald Trump. YEESH.
That's why, for dealing with my serious Houston-we-have-a-problem technology addiction, I'm channeling this national treasure of a woman below.
Tina Fey is not on Twitter. She's not on Instagram, at least publicly. I get the feeling she knows what's up in the world, and like, checks the news on her phone and shit while she's going to the bathroom (I assume she's a human) but mostly she's just kind of too busy writing TV shows and workshopping musicals based off hit films she wrote the decade prior and texting Amy Poehler and Maya Rudolph to be spending five hours a day scrolling NYMag and The Ringer and then back to NYMag and then what's happening on ESPN and weird I've opened Instagram without even realizing it and wow that dude from high school got married, huh.
I also just don't think Tina Fey really gives a shit.
And my theory is that none of us really give a shit. We think we do, because we somehow spend a good part of the day staring at people's faces/lives that have literally nothing to do with our own, but really, we don't care. What we do care about is our lives. As we should. We want our relationships and friendships to be good, our careers to thrive, our family dynamics to be stronger, blah blah blah. But that stuff is harder to figure out and confront than mindless scrolling. Thus I've been practicing, in my best Tina Fey voice, saying "I don't give a shit" (outloud—told you this was fun!) every time I reach for my phone or laptop to open Instagram or Twitter or God know's what else. Because, why? And also, don't I need to go check on the piece my genius husband Jeff Richmond is composing in the living room? I DO.
And, also, just while we're here, it's like, if my friends want to text me or call me and tell me about their vacations/the shit going down at their jobs/what motherhood is actually like/the crazy thing that happened at their cousins wedding, grand. I'm all ears! I bet you are, too. We crave that connection, people. Tina LOVES when Amy calls her!! Or sends her a GIF! But, otherwise, not interested, really, in like a bunch of pictures that I have no context on, because I don't even know these people anymore? Guide me, Tina, GUIDE ME INTO THE LIGHT!
MY GENERAL PERSONALITY
Without digging into a minefield of bees—is that a saying?—trying to be "more chill" in social situations/all of my relationships is something I am frequently thinking about. For one, I'm just always aware of the people whom I'm around socially who just make me feel the most at ease and accepted, like I can be myself and they're being themselves and we can all just CHILLAX and have a little white wine brah. Those people are the best! But, as a slightly (who are we kidding very) neurotic person that's not always the easiest, most natural thing for me to do. But do you know who it's natural for? THIS GUY.
This is Kevin McCallister's dad, aka Peter McCallister, aka Mr. McCallister from HOME ALONE. And he has now become my go-to for channeling ease and optimism when I walk into any social situation and/or need to talk to my boyfriend about weekend plans, or, I don't know, basically do literally anything that involves other people? 'Cause, see, it's fine that we left Kevin at home, babe! Babe, it's fine! I'm calm, I'm cool, I look great in sweaters, I exude warmth and competence and confidence regardless of whatever transatlantic family crises are currently unfolding in my life, and even if I don't know what to do for dinner on Friday and neither do you, it's fine! We'll figure it out! And we'll probably have a good time in the process! Plus, I also seem like someone you'd want to have a drink or two with, without being, like, a complete maniac, and if that's not the definition of successful adulthood, what is!
Jury's out on how well this is working (you'd have to ask my boyfriend...) but I no joke have thought of Mr. Mac a few times in the past weeks before opening my mouth and/or walking into any social gatherings and, what can I say: I look damn good in this polo shirt and it's all gonna be fine! And people forget things all the time when they're catching a flight Kate, you're not a bad mother!
THE FACT THAT I'M MESSY AS ALL HELL
Okay, so this one was real tricky. And also, real important, because being messy as all hell is, um, sort of a big problemo in my life, in the sense that it really bothers my very patient boyfriend. (And fine, me too, at least subconsciously.) But the thing is, most of the time I just don't see mess or clutter the way he/most normal people do. Not to mention, I have this weird complex where I think people who have really clean houses with no piles of books or papers or shoes everywhere are just, like, really sterile and boring and only care about aggressively wiping surfaces down with Clorox wipes and not like LIVING LIFE, MAN. (My boyfriend would probably point out that this is a totally f*cking nuts theory. Whatever.) And, also, just to set the record straight, I'm really not into this whole idea of Marie Kondo-ing one's home/apartment. One time I started to do that with all my paperwork and, no joke, I threw out an old journal with something very important to me in it. Like I could go into more detail, but then this will turn into a post about grief and death and really this is more about me not wanting to clean the inside of my shower on a regular basis. (By that I mean ever.) (BUT NEEDLESS TO SAY, it's possible that Marie Kondo might be a witch, so be careful what you determine "spark joys" with you before it's too late and you find yourself crying and rummaging through a dumpster in Charlestown.)
But yeah...I need to be cleaner. For the sake of my relationship, for my writing (it's amazingly easy to procrastinate when you always have the option of instead cleaning your closet, scrubbing down the fridge, decluttering any drawer in literally any dresser in your entire apartment....) But I knew if I picked someone too intimidating and effortless to channel—like, I don't know, Martha Stewart or basically any person wearing clogs that's featured on Apartment Therapy—it wouldn't work. It wouldn't feel natural. So after some serious brainstorming, I landed on this lovely lady.
Julia Child as played by Meryl Streep!
And let me tell you, it's working out pretty well! Because when I'm in this headspace, I can totally buy that having things tidy is a non-negotiable requirement to me, due to the fact that I'm a world-class hostess and chef and I once lived in France and I'm chic as f*ck. But, also, I still definitely think that it's a bit of a draaaaag to clean up! (And yes, the entire point of picking Julia-by-Meryl for cleanliness channelling is the ability to talk to oneself in that accent while gagging as the dishwasher filter is rinsed.)
And, it's true, when I go into this headspace I just see things differently than I normally do. (This kind of channeling is actually awesome for things you literally just don't NOTICE when you're being you.) Plus, I get to kind of run around the apartment swinging my hips dramatically and actually putting away the laundry the moment it's done, because when I'm Julia-by-Meryling I do naturally believe that a clean home is a love-filled home, but also, maybe I’m just spic-and-spanning up with such aplomb because an ambassador is coming over later? Wait, Maybe An Ambassador Is Coming Over Later is definitely going to be the title of my new book about how to keep your house clean without losing your mind. Take that Marie Kondo! But, for real, try this one at home hella messy folks. It's pretty golden.
BEING KIND
It says a lot about what the f's going on in our society today that I could not think of anyone for this at first. Probably because I was stupid and kept trying to think of, like, famous people, like I did for all my other ones, until I realized that's super shallow and very 2017 of me, since kindness isn't something you can really grasp through a screen.
Kind is sort of a weird word, too. It encompasses so many other things, I think, like patience and amiability and respect. But it means what it means for a reason—or, like, I guess I'm saying we use the word kind to describe someone, and not patient, or amiable, for a reason? Plus, I've always just really liked the word kind. It's similar to nice, but way cooler and somehow more fuzzy, too, like the word version of a blanket you just really get along with. And I know I already wrote about trying to be chiller in general around people in social situations, but being kinder in general feels even more important and more daunting. Because then you got back it up waaaay back, and start thinking about why certain people (like moi, admittedly) aren't always kind, and the next thing you know you're like WTF HAPPENED TO DONALD TRUMP WHEN HE WAS A KID WAS HE LOCKED IN A DUNGEON AND BEATEN WITH STICKS I MEAN MAH GAWD AMERICA WHAT HAVE WE DONE! But, yeah, this isn't about Trump. (I have to remind myself daily-to-hourly of this fact. Still don't always buy it.)
Anyhow, my new stepmom is really kind. I think she's legitimately the kindest person I've ever met. One of the first times we ever interacted, I had just gotten the norovirus at a lovely christmas party where everyone was slobbering all over the same infected cheese tray, and I was throwing up in her new apartment like it was going out of style. And I hate throwing up (I mean, who doesn't?) but like, I hadn't been sick like that in over a decade, and it was kind of bugging me out. (Schwing! Virus pun!) But this lady just kept delivering so much alka-seltzer to the trundle bed I was moaning and groaning on, and then she gave me A FULL BODY MASSAGE for like THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES. (I'm talking HEAD, FEET and BACK people. And this wasn't just a one-time thing to win me over. She does this on the reg, even if you're not puking.) I should also point out here that she's an oncology nurse, and, as Jimmy Kimmel recently told us all so memorably, nurses are the best —smart, actual lifesavers, who yes, are often very kind.
My new stepmom is also really religious, too. I'm not sure what that has to do with anything, but I find it interesting, because I don't know that many devout people. She doesn't talk about her religion a lot (well, she sort of does, in the fact that she emails me or texts me from time to time—usually after I've sent her an update on a project I'm working on—and tells me that's she's praying for me.) At first, I found this stuff a little weird. I still do. But really, it's just her way of showing that she's thinking of me and believes in me, which, is, um, really kind? Also, she likes doing tequila shots with my boyfriend, in case she sounds a little boring. AND in case she sounds too perfect, she recently sent me a very long text raving about how good the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie was, so....you know, we can't all be perfect. But in the kindness that she shows to my father (the woman deserves a Nobel Peace Prize), her two biological daughters, me and my brother, all her various patients—whom she cares for and prays for and sometimes texts me about with stories of their illnesses and worried family members and hopes that I too pray for them and remain grateful for my health and blessings—I'm not sure where the well of it comes from, because it seems kind of endless. But it feels pretty great to feel and be around. And it's natural for her. That I marvel at.
When I started writing and thinking about this piece, it did come from a real place of thinking about how difficult self-improvement is, and how I wanted to actually try something new. (Yep, getting weird here.) I wrote down just the people's names I listed in this piece on separate index cards (including Eric Roth as my writing channel-er person, because he wrote Forrest Gump and just seems hella chill) and put them next to my bed. And the crazy thing is, when I see my stepmom's name on the card, I do suddenly feel—immediately and almost magically—a little bit kinder. It feels that much easier to tap into the well of what I know is the good part of me. And to know that by tapping into that well there's no way other people aren't feeling it, and that I too can aim to give my version of a thirty-five minute body massage to anyone who's metaphorically puking and may need it—well it makes me feel good. WAIT. Should my new stepmom, like, run for President in 2020? I don't know, but at the very least she'd make a killer ROCK running-mate. #MakeAmericaKindAgain!
Who are you channeling these days?
***
*Yes, I realize that my version of "adulthood" would probably send both of my grandmothers cackling out their back doors with a handle of whiskey between their lips as their three plus baby-childs come scrambling and screaming after them, and also there are wars going on, and I’m very-to-extremely privileged and blah, blah, blah but, look, I’m not running for President, okay? That job is for SERIOUS, respectful, patient, intelligent non-internet addicted ACTUAL adults!!
**This clearly does not apply to the Kardashians. TWIST! Maybe that's why they're so successful??? Because their faces n' boobs n' shows are fake???
PS: if you got the a, 2 and d reference up there, you too are a Home Alone superfan and I love you. #buzzforever