One day we wake up born, one day we fall dead. Time is of the essence, time is relative, and time is an illusion. Life sets us up with a million ways to fail, and a trillion ways to succeed. The rulebook of life is written by the ancestors of society, and we are expected to follow it, even though we weren’t allowed to read the fine print. Check this box, initial here, sign in blue ink on the dotted line. Contracts are signed, rules are followed, and we only get so much say in how we want to live our lives.
I’ve recently begun watching Mad Men, the period drama featuring Madison Avenue advertising men pushing the envelope on what’s acceptable while simultaneously refusing to accept unwanted change. Women are solely secretaries and housewives; men have mistresses in each city. Thankfully, we’ve (almost entirely) moved past this era of embarrassment where success was only designed for XY chromones and not XX. But that’s a topic for another time.
In my very limited experience with the show (I am only on episode four), I’ve already harnessed abundant information about two distinct topics. First, the evolution of cigarettes. Second, which rules are written in the stars and which rules are written in the sand.
The cryptic protagonist and industry icon, Don Draper, reflects on this very topic. His character clearly faces a constant identity crisis, though he would never talk about his inner feelings unless perhaps his children were on the table. Part of him yearns for the stability of his beautiful wife and suburban home, while his other side is driven by the youthful impulsivity that New York City was baptized by. Even as he ages and the inevitable fate of death is in his very distant peripheral vision, Don’s lust for sweet danger is overbearing. In a discussion with one of his clients, who he ironically “couldn’t help but kiss,” he shares his feelings on the white papers of life.
Don leaves us all thinking about how we decide to fill this ominous gap between life and death. As he puts it, there is no such thing as tomorrow. Do we decide to play by the rules, earning a white-picket fence, enough paychecks to fund college tuitions of 2.5 kids, and an Etsy-designed Christmas Card to send to your highschool sweetheart? [Because someone has to prove they moved on.]
We tend to fight for a sense of stability. Every decision we make contributes to this so-called end goal. We save our finances to prepare for retirement. We take the safe route to ensure we don’t lose our jobs. We exercise three to five times a week to make sure we will live a longer life. We spend so much time preparing for the future, yet we don’t ever experience the future.
It’s only ever physically possible to live in the present. Once again, time is proven relative, and the idea of “waiting for tomorrow” loses all merit.
Why don’t we fight for a sense of impulsivity? For an evergreen forage that stays in bloom even in the depths of a Chicago winter? Instead of searching for color, we bundle up, turn on The Office, color our lives in grey, and wait for springtime to knock on our door.
All of this planning, saving, and waiting for tomorrow is a hidden form of an empty promise. An empty promise to ourselves. If we continue to follow these rules, escaping the here and now, will we ever know who is here and what is now? More importantly, will we ever understand the why behind our lives?
Purpose is found in the present. Not in next month’s budget report, not in waiting three hours to reply to that Snapchat.
This doesn’t just apply to finances and career goals. There are three sections of our lives that necessitate our attention: family and friends, career and fulfillment, and romantic endeavors. A truly balanced life pays dividends to all three; we invest in ourselves and these three sectors receive the cash.
Even despite our best efforts to gain control of these pie-chart slices of life, we follow an invisible hand model. Though I may not have considered Micro 101 to be satisfactory for my creativity-driven palate, here is my one takeaway: Adam Smith was right. Adam Smith, economist and author of “The Wealth of Nations,” believed that unseen forces guide the free market economy. Everyone works for themselves, and the economy itself “unconsciously” follows the rules.
Now, if you don’t know yet, this should be made clear: I am not an economist. My business minor courses and a few entertaining investment podcasts may keep my head above water, but I’m no Olympic swimmer in the financial realm. However, I am a writer, and I do love a good analogy.
Society has this same invisible hand. Aside from legal crimes, we are technically free to do whatever we want to do, yet we have a mutual understanding of what is right and wrong. Women: Don’t text him first, you’ll come off too strong. But confidence is attractive? Men: Don’t tell her you like her, you’ll lose ‘the chase’ factor. But not playing games is the new trend?
All of these rules contradict one another, so we’re all left coloring outside the lines whether we were an art major or not. No amount of expertise -- not even a Ph.D. -- can secure that you know what the hell is going on.
Hence, I challenge you. If you’ve been following one “rule of life” for years now and haven’t found any success, do the exact opposite. If there’s any generation that’s able to put a stop to the neverending cycle, Gen Z’s resume lies at the top of the A-list pile.
There is too much of the present, too little of the future, and absolutely none of the past. So next time you bite into a slice of pie -- friends and family, career and fulfillment, or romantic endeavors -- bite off more than you think you can chew. We’ve been taught to take on less to reduce the likelihood of failing. Growing up, I was constantly told, “Your eyes are bigger than your stomach.” Sure, this may have been in the literal sense as I heaved four servings of ravioli into my 3rd-grade lunchbox, but I can’t help but apply it here. Break that rule of life: bite off more than you can chew, then digest it all.
To breaking the rules and eating all the pie,
caroline hughes
Comments