In ten years, I won’t fly commercial flights every 4 days.
In ten years, I won’t work in tech.
In ten years, I will be living in a small, pastel stucco house within half a mile from the beach. Why half a mile? Because if I run a mile at a beach, then an half mile there and back, I’ve hit a 2 mile run and that’s perfect for when I’m feeling my most lazy. There’s nothing quite like running on the beach; there’s nothing quite like it for me. The waves wash out the noise from the fucking calamity of humanity that starts as soon as the sand stops. Each step along my run, I get a sinking, unstable feeling in my body; my muscles actually have to work to keep me upright, running, moving forward. Unlike most of the rest of my life: a chair props me up, a gas pedal dictates the flection of my calf. I wonder if I could successfully weekend-at-Bernie’s my job. I might be able to, physically. But running on the beach, I have to pay attention or else I’ll do a somersault into the salt water.
In ten years, I won’t spend any of my time worrying about whether I have chosen an acceptable flight to arrive at the client site on time. I won’t worry about whether I filled out my expense report correctly, or whether I filled in my timesheet. I’ll work somewhere that I don’t care if I have a timesheet, because my life and work will meld because I will actually LIKE my job. I won’t worry about whether I should order one more bottle of expensive, shitty wine on the airplane; I won’t feel the need to drink away the reality of a tiny airline seat hurtling across the sky to run away from a week of bad work. I won’t spend an 9 hours a day in a room without windows. I won’t work at an institute where I need to be escorted to the bathroom because CLEARANCES. Fuck clearances. I used to have one. It sucked balls.
In ten years, my neck muscles won’t be wound so tightly that I worry my head will pop off.
“Frozen all the same and slowly melting from the Adderall, always getting dragged around by gender roles.”
“she crossed her heart, and clicked her heels then got her stomach pumped. Before the misdemeanor should have seen her pretty face” -Walter Mitty and his Makeshift Orchestra, Howl
This week, Dan and I were walking along the beach. We needed to keep walking farther to get to the stairs leading up to the top of the cliffs, but a rocky outcropping in front of us and high tide on our right. We didn’t care; we only had to go 20 yards to get around the outcropping. How high could the surf actually come up? My pants only rolled up about 6 inches; that should be fine. 5 steps in.. the tide laps the bottom of my cuffs. I veer right so as to stay far enough away from the boulders hidden in the sand, threatening to trip me. Even a foot of waves could knock me into those; not fun. Ten more steps, the waves are hitting my knees, water soaking my pants a foot above the rolled cuffs. Dan is on my left avoiding the highest part of the waves. He steps on a rock! He crumbles! The wave crashes! I’m up to my waist in water, laughing. Dan, tumbled, sputters as the wave hits him mid-neck. Soaking, dripping, we stumble out of the waves. We shake out on the beach and climb the stairs to the cliff tops, laughing uncontrollably. Our waves of laughter ebb and flow just like the ones that drenched us.
We walk home. We dry out our clothes and our phones and wallets. We rinse off. We track sand across the faux hardwood floor of the hotel. We sleep.
I wake up to a fine layer of sand in the bed. I step into a spotty covering of sand in the bath tub. I scratch sand and shampoo off my scalp with my fingernails. I don’t care one bit. I would rather spend a gritty life of sand and salt water than one of airline miles, hotel points, and eating out on an expense account.