Dear FutureMe,
If you've actually figured out what to do with our life, congratulations. You've done much more than I have. If you've found that perfect girl, well done. If she's [NAME REDACTED], I applaud you. If your Youtube videos have gotten anywhere, I'm proud. Don't forget how much we love to write, and how we always dread the future. Don't forget about being a kid, don't get bogged down in work, and don't lose your sense of self in your life. Happy birthday.
And don't eat Ed's peanuts.
The funny thing about the email is that, in the back of my mind, the only part I remembered about it over 9 years was the name of [NAME REDACTED] even though that's the part that matters the least, now that I'm the person I am. A few years ago I faced a choice of whether or not to take another desk job, move to another state, work longer hours for more money; it was a very real, very pressing future after NYC malaise settled under my skin, just like the midnight sewage fumes that wafted from the sewer grates and clung to my clothes with every walk to the train station after work. Even though I didn't explicitly remember what I wrote in the email, I still had the sense to know the monotonous work-oriented life wasn't something I wanted. There's no point in dedicating life to work if there's little life left to live outside of it, at least for me.
And now that I've hit 30, I can look back on my 20s as being just as formative as my teenage years were. Just like it took getting a bit more mature to realise that I should actually give half a shit about my academia, it took getting ground up and thrown around by the private sector to make me realise that I hate generic office culture, I hate dress codes, I hate cover sheets for work reports, I hate office gossip, I hate riding the same goddamn train every day and seeing the same dead faces time and again that shamble off with zombie steps in their pre-determined routine, I hate faceless corporate overlords who are so far removed from the work at the bottom rung that they only serve to make those jobs more difficult by piling on more responsibilities and refusing to pay more or make the job more comfortable, I hate the pain in my back from carrying my bag up and down 20 NYC blocks because it saves me a few thousand on transport every year, I hate sycophantic people who try to win favour with others through food, I hate being forced to choose between trudging through a blizzard or using one of my vacation days that I'd been saving for a holiday, I hate being given the hand-me-down catering leftovers from whenever the bigwigs have a meeting, I hate having a variable work schedule and having to get up at 2am when the train reeks of piss and sweat, I hate having an idea on how to improve work processes only to have supervisors shrug it off because 'that's just how we do it'; at this point I'd rather wear LEGO pants than go back to that.
But my 20s wasn't just about discovering what I hate; if it was only that, well, I'd probably enter my 30s well equipped with a walker and a sign demanding kids turn down their damn music and stop playing in my street. I love clean air; I love to write, obviously; I love going to my local for the weekly pub quiz; I love sitting inside to the patter of rainfall; I love martial arts; I love trying to help others as best I can; I love my friends. And throughout that all, it's safe to say (if my continuing knowledge of Star Trek and Harry Potter minutiae is any indication) that I haven't lost passion about those things that comfort me.
Did I have another existential crisis? Well, it wouldn't be the end of my early years if I didn't have a minor one. It wasn't too pronounced, at least not as much as the end of my teens; maybe I've accepted that as I get older, my age is just the thing my body reminds me of in the occasional back and knee pain. So long as I can retain a bit of delight in my passions, the only thing that will age is my body. I'll get wiser, sure, try to learn from my mistakes, but that doesn't mean I'll stop making them. That was one of my ultimate fears with 'playing it safe' and taking another monotous job that saps time: I'd look at myself 20 years from now, see the thinned hair, the lines under my eyes, and wonder what's happened with my years. Pushing yourself to change and tackle new things is the breath of life; without it, I'd be riding the train to work, tracing the pre-made paths I'd trodden on thousands of times before, dreaming with empty eyes about places I'd never been.
I'll keep pushing until there's nothing left to push and diving into the things I want to do, and I'll celebrate all the mistakes along the way.
Except eating Ed's peanuts; that wasn't a mistake. Sorry Ed.
Until next time.
