Crossroads

The month of May, that intersection of spring and summer, always feels like a time for great change. Around this time last year, I was on my way to Charlotte to film a documentary for a few days, the first I'd ever produced for UNC-TV. In college, this month revolved around the last day of classes and graduation. In high school, it was the month of May Fest, which eventually became Senior Day or something like that. It was a day when upperclassmen got to spend the afternoon in the gym playing ping-pong, chatting on the bleachers, and crawling through an inflatable obstacle course (I'd be surprised if nobody lost their virginity in it). It doesn't sound that exciting, but I remember that, despite its usual musk of sweat and wood varnish, the air in the gym sparkled that day with this electric happiness. It could have been a charge from all the impending adulthood in the room. Summer was so close we could taste it, the peach juice and honeysuckle and the sweetness of the phrase "This is my life, and I'll do with it as I please." It could also have been the fact that I was in love. A few days earlier, as part of our studies of British poetry, my twelfth-grade English class wandered around a small field near the front parking lot, hidden by trees. We each had to pick a spot and write a poem of our own, somehow inspired by that spot, in the spirit of "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey." I sat down in the grass and sought inspiration in the cool patches of clover around my legs, running my fingers through them and jotting down disjointed lines about reconnecting with nature, the circle of life, and other cliches. I couldn't concentrate on the ground because I kept looking up at the boy who would become my first boyfriend, wandering between trees with his notebook. If I'd known we wouldn't have to read our poems in class, I might have written something about his contemplative stare, or his cursive handwriting.

My point is that in the past, these crossroads that I've reached in late spring, from decisions about my life and career to new relationships, have generally been enjoyable experiences. However, I'm not sure "enjoyable" is the best word to describe the crossroads of this particular May. I wouldn't call it awful, but I would call it chaotic. It's exciting, but not in the most pleasant way. A few weeks ago, I saw a peony bush in bloom outside the building where I work. For the longest time, the fluffy, white flowers had only been fat buds, but they'd finally burst open that day. If peonies were sentient, I wonder if they'd know what was happening while they were still buds, or if they'd worry that they might always be buds, getting bigger but never flowering. While they waited in the closed darkness of their leaves, would they even be aware of the fact that they're plants, creating such beautiful flowers with only water and sunlight? This illustration of uncertainty basically describes my feelings right now. I like to think that all the considerable setbacks this year has started off with are part of my own personal and artistic budding period, and that plants just handle it a lot more gracefully. I've learned that I'm not as passionate about some of my pursuits as I thought I was, and that I'm very passionate about others that I didn't discover until recently, such as playing and writing songs. This can be both liberating and frightening, since discovering new passions tends to alter current life plans. But, as the saying goes, if you want to make God laugh, make a plan. Basically, I'm not quite as certain about what I want out of life as I was when I first graduated from college, and I'm also learning just how much effort it takes to create your own happiness instead of relying on other people to provide it for you. I'm not talking about material forms of happiness, like food or warm shelter, but a general sense of fulfillment and excitement about life. Forging that sense can be exhausting work.  
 

Another cause of this anxiety is probably my recent adventure with online dating. I tried OkCupid for about two weeks before I started feeling like a nervous little kid in an amusement park--the kind who decides they're finally going to ride a roller coaster, but freaks out and wants off as they're getting strapped in. The immediacy and shallowness of it felt so unnatural. The site expected me to form an attraction to someone only by looking at a few pictures and their answers to two-dimensional, mostly yes or no questions. It felt like wandering around a car dealership with a pushy salesman. With rare exceptions, love is a gradual process for me. Plus, despite the fact that the site is for adults, the OkCupid copywriting staff seems to be composed of thirteen-year-old girls. I'd get emails saying things like "they're totally into you." Most of the compatibility questions, on the other hand, seem to have been written by thirteen-year-old boys. About three quarters of them are variations on "Do you like to be slapped/gagged/bitten/tied up/fish-slapped/drawn and quartered/stuck in a particle accelerator during sex?" The most interesting thing I found, however, is that most of the top matches I found were attractive in some way, but also had a single, crucial flaw that ruined any chance of a relationship. Examples:

1. A cute, wealthy guy who writes a you a sweet message and speaks fluent Russian, but is also probably a racist.
2. A cute guy who loves music and spirituality, but discriminates against people with mental illnesses (he refused to date anyone who took antidepressants). I don't take them myself, but anyone who thinks taking medication for an illness makes you undateable will get nothing from me but a swift kick in the nether regions.
3. A guy who's everything you want emotionally and intellectually, but doesn't attract you physically. This may be the worst case of all. Sometimes I wish I could just make myself be physically attracted to anybody.  

Needless to say, I ultimately deleted my account, I applaud the people who manage to find love online, but it just isn't for me. Probably the most helpful piece of advice I can offer from my experience is to always perform what I call the "lightbulb test" on someone's dating profile. If you replace the word "man," "woman," "boyfriend," or "girlfriend" wherever it appears, and it makes perfect sense, then the person is probably a jerk. Example: "I'm not looking to replace my current [lightbulb] or obtain a second [lightbulb], but a backup would be swell." Also, on your own profile, please don't describe yourself as a "rad motherf****r."  

The really strange thing is that this personal turmoil has been happening during a major upswing in my TV career. I'm grateful for this, but also puzzled by the contrast between my life at work and my life outside it. Why is it so difficult to achieve success in both at the same time? Lately, my job has had me busier than ever, with more opportunities than ever, and people have complimented me on my achievements. However, this brings me to my second main point, which is that no matter how good other people's lives look on paper, many of us are still freaking out or don't know exactly what we're doing, and the acknowledgement of this shared internal messiness can be wonderfully unifying. I love learning about the struggles of great writers and artists, not because I enjoy other people's misery, but because it reminds me that they're still humans like us, no matter how lofty the heights their work might have set them upon. Frank Capra panicked after winning an Oscar for It Happened One Night. James Joyce's struggles to get Ulysses published and distributed involved battling obscenity charges and sending banned books over the Canadian border stuffed down the front of a guy's pants (is that a literary classic, or are you just glad to see me?). Hopefully I'll never have to resort to such desperate measures to get my own art recognized, but if I did, like many of life's considerable setbacks, at least it would make a good story.