This time last year, I was eating cold Spaghetti-O’s straight out of the can for breakfast—
And not in the hilarious look how hipster and avant-garde I am way, but in more of the I am so full of nothingness and listlessness that I probably can’t muster up the energy to stand by the microwave and heat up my fake processed meatballs before shoving them between my chapped lips and washing them down with lukewarm tap water sort of way. (One involves adorable black-rimmed glasses. The other mostly involved crying jags in Target.)
I was in The Hole. (Dun dun dunnnnn.)
For those of you who aren’t familiar, The Hole is that voice who tells you to keep the blinds closed and spend four straight days watching Hoarders on Netflix. The Hole is that weirdly unnerving smell your sweatpants get when you’ve worn them too many days without doing laundry. The Hole is like a damn TV set only to static, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t get any reception–not even daytime reruns of Family Feud, you guys.
In other words, The Hole is where creativity, happiness, and passion go to die–
(gruesome, bloody deaths probably involving muskets and definitely including some Wilhelm screams).
And it wants to eat yo’ family.
KIDDING. The Hole isn’t quite that tough or aggressive, but it does want you to settle into your routine with such determination that you start to mold. (Please picture that loaf of bread on your counter that you bought to make grilled cheese sandwiches and then promptly forgot about.) DON’T BE THE BREAD. Unless it’s a perfectly-crusted French loaf, because that shit is delicious.
But carbs aside, the only way to claw your way out of that grey-toned apathy packed with dust bunnies and all those whiny songs that reminds you of every break up you’ve ever had?
Is to do something different.
You have to force yourself into new experiences, (despite how scared or tired or full of Twinkies you are), drop-kicking your doubts and shoving your finger into fear’s eye. (Also, there’s a whole lot of personification happening up in this hiz, and I’m not even a little sorry.)
What it comes down to is that while routines can be healthy, ruts are a disease–an aggressive form of apathy that wants you to nap through your day and stare blankly at your husband when he suggests that maybe you have sex on a weeknight, (because you haven’t showered in four days and the dry shampoo has run out.)
Don’t let your life flatline.
Partly because that one long beeeeeeeeeeep grates on everyone’s nerves, but also because there is life outside of your apartment. There is love outside your city. And there is adventure in your damn soul.
And though that may sound foofy as fuck, it really comes down to this:
Would you rather spend the rest of your life in stained t-shirts with your ass firmly settled into the groove you’ve made in your couch cushion, or swaying your hips to the sultry Salsa music in a cantina, the sweat carving rivers down your back, and the rhythmic pull of the bass working you, and your passion for everything, into an insatiable frenzy?
The choice–
Between mediocrity or Merlot, sipped on a Spanish veranda,
Between settling for stagnation or the soft noises of the jungle, sloths dripping off the trees and the afternoon rain catching the light,
Between a lifetime of never doing or attacking apathy and accepting adventure,
–is yours.
So, what’s is gonna be?
Are you going to just stand by, or stand out? The world is waiting.
P.S. A little birdy did tell me this Monday might be a good opportunity to DO.
What story do you want to be able to tell? What experience do you NEED to have? Tell us about your dreams in the comments, because I’m feeling sentimental today, and dreams are effing IMPORTANT.