Scrappy Little Nobody(68)

The further I get into self-improvement, the more I hope I’ll grow some new part of my brain that makes me take care of my responsibilities automatically. Like highway blindness. If I grabbed my keys for a Krispy Kreme run in my sweatpants, I’d come to twenty minutes later, wearing pleated khakis and getting my oil changed. Sadly, I am conscious through every excruciating moment of paying my parking tickets on the DMV website and cleaning a little bit each day so it doesn’t pile up on me. I expected to take an interest in my retirement plan, understanding general car maintenance, and doing my laundry on a schedule instead of three days after I ran out of underwear. But just thinking about that stuff makes me want to lie on the floor and eat packets of Easy Mac until I feel too swollen and turgid to do anything but dream up elaborate ways to murder everyone who says “life hack.” I power through. I’m still an embarrassment to civilized society, but now I change the toilet paper roll instead of resting it vertically on top of the old one. There’s hope.

The trickiest areas to improve are my fitness habits. When I work on them, it’s great for a while because I don’t feel so sluggish and I have fewer mood swings, but shitty because healthy food tastes gross. Naturally luminous, perfectly proportioned people are always full of helpful tips to set me on the right path. Oh, aloe vera water is the new chia seed? Cool, I’ll just work up the reserve of self-loathing I’ll need to choke down that spit-flavored miracle drink. Why don’t I just eat powdered egg whites until I pass out? (Eesh, add “food issues” to the therapy list.)

When it comes to exercise, I’ll start out slow—just an easy hike. The next day I’ll be too sore to move but I’ll say the reason I can’t hike again for a few days is because my allergies (to sunlight and pain) are acting up. I don’t know who I’m “saying” that to—obviously I don’t invite anyone to witness these feeble attempts at physical activity. Being healthy is testing my commitment, but I’m feeling pretty good about my monthly dose of seeing-the-sky.

Then I have to make the bed, and that’s where it all falls apart. I hate making the bed so much. Way more than I should. I can’t make my bed without collapsing into a full-on existential crisis. So you made the bed. It looks nice. But . . . you are just going to get BACK into bed tonight. Then you’ll have to make it again tomorrow, and on and on and on and then you’ll be dead. And then I’ll start thinking, Well, why do any housework? Why do the dishes? You’re just going to get them dirty again. Maybe you should start eating every meal with your hands, bent over the trash can. Why work to improve any area of your life when everything good that happens is going to require more and more maintenance?!

Maybe giving up on this adulthood thing wouldn’t be so bad. In movies and TV the man-child always has a moment of clarity and gets his act together for his wife or his baby, but what if I just didn’t? What if I just kept returning the proverbial mini-fridge?

When I’m in full man-child mode, I sleep until ten, dopey and sweating, my only motivation to stand the promise of an ice-cream sandwich to start the day. The mid-morning sugar crash isn’t a problem when my only objective is to sit as still as possible while watching Naked and Afraid. People might roll their eyes at me, but they’re just jealous because their hearts-of-palm ceviche sucks. Sure, my muscles are atrophied, but stacking my dirty dishes in the sink and leaving them there has become a veritable game of high-stakes Jenga, so my physical dexterity really isn’t in question at this point.

Food and housework aren’t the real problem. The real problem is that I let anxiety cripple my relationships. I blame this paralysis on different things. It started as a money issue: I was too broke to go out. I didn’t want to spend money I didn’t have on dinners and drinks and the movies. I didn’t want to invite anyone over, because my place was gross. Once I had an income, it became a time issue: I’m working too much to go out. Even when I do have a free day or two, there’s this overwhelming guilt about planning anything recreational. I haven’t been to the dentist in a year and a half, but I’m gonna go to Lacy’s party? Out of the question. I mean, I still won’t go to the dentist, but making fun plans would force me to acknowledge that I’m not going to go to the dentist.

I get that it’s not a money issue or a time issue, it’s just a me-being-a-malfunctioning-life-form issue. I think I need to become perfect all at once, so I keep getting overwhelmed and putting it off. I can’t remember the last time that I didn’t have something hanging over my head. There are usually about thirty to eighty things. Is that normal? Don’t tell me. If it’s not, I’m a jerk. If it is, that’s super-depressing, and I know I’ll just use “this is normal” as an excuse to procrastinate even more.

I know that feeling isn’t unique to me. Yes, I’m away from home a lot and keep the hours of a meth-addicted puzzle enthusiast (it takes as long as it takes, okay?!), but everyone in the world feels like their inbox is growing faster than they can keep up, right? If there was just a little more time, or a little more money, or if you could just get through this one last rough patch, it would all be clear, it would all fall into place. It’s an insatiable trap.

And YET, I always think, This is my year. This year I’m going to get my shit SO together that I’ll always be able to see the solution to my problems. I’m going to get it so together that I’ll never have to “get it together” again. It’s like this Tyler Durden–style feeling that I’m so close. I’m so close to being a real person. I’m so close to making time for friends and family. I’m so close to being able to take out the trash without checking that none of my neighbors are outside because small talk makes me feel like the world is on fire. I’m so close to being wonderful.