Simone

My mother has texted me, “Here. Where are you?” 17 times in a row in minute-long intervals for 17 minutes. She is early to pick me up from volunteering. My text notifications are on silent on my phone, which is in my bag, about five yards away from me.

“Here. Where are you?” Unbeknownst to me, another minute has passed and my mother has just copied and sent this text message for the 18th time in a row.

Honestly, Mom, I’m not sure where I am. I know physically, I’m at an elementary school bonding with a fifth grader, but I’m talking about the grander scale here. I’m pretty content with myself, but I know that’s entirely dependent upon how other people view me, so this level of contentment is set to fluctuate almost constantly for the rest of my life. I’m nervous about my future, mainly because I have about 60 or 70 years left to determine its course, and truthfully, I have no idea what I want. I’m also becoming more cognizant of the fact that I won’t ever know.

Since I don’t know what I want, I never know what to do. Usually I follow my heart and act in the moment, but usually, that bites me in the ass. Because I have no gauge on what I want in the future, I can’t even truly assess the consequences and benefits of any decision I make now. That’s not just a little scary, that’s a lot scary. For example, in the future, two minutes from now, you will scream at me for making you wait a whopping 20 minutes in the car because you showed up too early too something I couldn’t leave. But I don’t know that yet, because I haven’t made the decision to check my phone, or the window outside which you sit in your car, fuming. And right now it seems, there’d be no benefit to me doing either. Don’t you see why I’m so confused?

If my indecision, and ignorance to all possible decisions weren’t enough, there is the aspect which is most hard to describe. As of recently, I’ve become someone I don’t think I like. A shallow person. Someone who spends a lot of time looking in the mirror, or trying to find a mirror to look at themselves in, and unfollowing people on Instagram to fix their followers to following ratio. Someone who is genuinely worried about their carbohydrate consumption for reasons none other than their waistline. In theory, there’s nothing wrong with becoming more concerned with my appearance, or social standing, or reputation. But it shouldn’t be everything. I shouldn’t be caring less about producing things to put into the world. I shouldn’t be caring less about absorbing the knowledge of the world. My lack of motivation is frustrating, but I don’t mind its consequences; more time to spend in other areas, I guess. I’m really happy. Boys pay more attention to me, girls too. People say my name when I’m not listening, and that can be scary at times, but ego-boosting and validating at best. I feel popular, and wanted, and “in.” I like where I stand.

And then I think of myself at age 12 or 13, is the throes of puberty, determined not to ever let the minutiae and bullshit of middle school, or high school, or college, or life dictate who I’d be and who I was to become. I think of the person who made a conscious effort to differentiate themselves from others, to explore their creative interests, to bring something new, and wonderful, and original into the world. That person would be very disappointed in who they’ve become. That person would feel horrible knowing the present them is happy being everything they once stood against.

Is it bad for me to simply move on, even if it means changing everything I once was?

Mom, I don’t know where I am. But you do. You know exactly where I am. I’m inside the school, talking to a fifth grader about the mean girl in her class so I can get some community service hours. If you simply call me, I’ll hear my phone ringing in my bag, and come out to the car. And then I’ll be sitting right next to you. ♦