Consistently Inconsistent

Judging oneself for everything and nothing

One of the things I find most persistently annoying about myself – and there is a long list – is my reluctance to go outside.

Here I am, sitting at my desk, my feet resting on the walking pad beneath it, gazing out at the beautiful lakefront in Chicago, IL. It isn’t beach weather in the traditional sense, but no weather is traditional in Chicago, except for the pounding winter chill – and we didn’t even have much of that this year.

It is sunset, and a totally lovely one, with a pinky-blue aura to the horizon, which seems to lead to the end of the world (I believe in actuality it points me in the directions of Indiana and Michigan.)

Why am I not outside?

I like outside. I walked over 5,000 steps yesterday, which is a lot for me, mainly through leafy green Chicago neighborhoods. There was a storm, and I was indoors watching The War of the Worlds (1953) with people I like. I thrilled to the cool damp air whooshing in through the open window, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from some enviable working fireplace. Earlier in the day, when it was sunny and warm, I had an iced americano at a coffeeshop I like with a new friend I’ve been corresponding with for months. It was fun.

Why didn’t I repeat that, or some form of it, again today?

I can see people on the beach, a couple of people snuggled together for at least a half hour, others walking one of the little piers that dot the coastline here, still more people wandering around in family or friend groups. The trees near the beach were mostly bare when I got here in the winter, and I wondered what they would look like in plush green splendor, and now I know – at least from up here in my apartment, a place I chose for its many windows.

I am realizing, as I write, that I am not outside today precisely because I was outside yesterday, being social, breathing what seemed like fresh happy air, and it is okay to stay inside the day after one has gone outside, particularly if one needs a break from humans. Fuck, I even tidied my kitchen a bit, after an aborted attempt to bake cookies. I started listening to The Devil in the White City, fucking FINALLY.

Why am I listing off the things I did today as if I needed to prove to myself or to a reader that I was, in some sense, productive?

I have spent so much of my life wondering why I was not doing what I felt I should be doing, things some other people seemed to do with relative ease or at least an admirable sense of regularity. Why do I not exercise regularly? Why do I not write every single day? Why do I not prepare my own foods on a sensible schedule, using a clearly outlined budget, accounting for ample nutritional value and good taste?

Why do I not drink more green tea? Why don’t I keep up chiropractor visits? Why don’t I stretch every single day, at least twice a day? Why don’t I call my friends in Milwaukee and Houston and Los Angeles on the telephone, regularly, to talk to them like real human beings? Why don’t I spend 15 minutes a day tidying my apartment so that bigger messes don’t pile up? Why don’t I watch at least one classic film per week? Why do I say I’ll do some good things and then only do them once, or a few times, for a little while?

Why am I consistently inconsistent?

Why did I sleep so much today? It was beautiful outside. Why do the sunny days sometimes feel oppressive, and the grey rainy days like a balm?

Why do I treat some days as if I had to put points on the board OR ELSE?

The scoreboard does not exist. We get who knows how many days, and then it’s all over, and my educated guess is that it’s a motherfucking waste to delay rest, to delay listening to an audiobook, to delay making shitty cookie batter just for the fuck of it, to delay cuddling with an ornery but very soft cat who actually lets you curl up with her now and then.

There’s a red light blinking at the end of the pier, on a tiny lighthouse. It begins at dusk to warn any wayward sailors. There’s a big white light atop one or more of these hulking impersonal apartment buildings, and it spins around and flashes later on in the evening to warn any errant pilots.

Don’t lose your way, say the stark blasts of luminosity. Keep your eye on the path. Follow the prescribed route, unless you realize it was designed for destruction. In that case, change it up. If you can still see the light, you still have time to do something differently. You still have time to save somebody, even if it’s only yourself.

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This essay was originally published in rough draft form on my Patreon. Contributions to my Patreon support my work, as do paid subscriptions. Thank you to those who support my work financially, and thank you to everyone who reads and shares what they like.