Ordinary

I used to feel bad about my perfect life.

Of course, no life is perfect, according to the pure definition of the word. But in the grand scheme of things like war, famine, rape, broken families, poverty — well, my life was about as close to perfect as you could get.

I would feel bad about my perfect life not because it was particularly painful, but because it was ordinary.

And for a 17-year-old girl, ordinary is the worst thing you could be.

10 years later, living with constant pain and taking routine prophylactic mastectomy consultations, I can say with confidence that my life is categorically imperfect. And yet, I’m more ordinary than I’ve ever been.

I go to bed at 10 pm. I don’t take vacation. I turn down plans. I shower every night. I’m on SSRIs.

I make good money. I buy only organic. I go shopping on the weekends and take dates during the week.

I listen to pop. I prefer reality television to movies. I find reading hard. I don’t cry to breakup songs.

I was wrong to believe that struggling would make me more interesting. I was wrong to believe that I cared about living an interesting life. I was wrong to believe that I would care at all, about any of it.

The truth is, at 27 years old, the only thing I really want from life is for it to be easy. And if that comes at the cost of being extraordinary, well, I’ll consider that later.

Admitting to contentment, prioritizing ease … it feels wrong not to be chasing after something. It’s what an ordinary person would do.

But what if the ordinary person isn’t ordinary at all? What if they’re just tired?

Is there room for extraordinary, tired people in the world? How could there be when there are entirely too many duds committed to beating you to the grocery line?

These are the questions that the duds will answer.

Me? I’ll be listening to Sabrina Carpenter and not thinking about anything at all.