I often wonder what would happen if my teenage self met my twenty-something self. It’s amusing to think about what pleasantries would be exchanged, what values would be debated and examined, and most curiously, how one would view the other. I imagine chuckling at my younger twin’s naivety and squirming under her critical glare. At her most superficial, I often imagine my sweet teenage self - with her copious skincare products and Christmas-gifted eyeshadow palettes - gawking with disgust at my current self, who has since purged most of her dewy, sparkly goodies and has little more than a hairbrush and mascara in her arsenal.
When I reflect on the beauty habits of my teenage self, I recall a girl who was as obsessed - if not, more obsessed - with the process of beauty than the final product itself. Before middle school, she would rise before the sun, to pack on foundation in gloriously thick layers, dabbing her blemishes with a ring finger and a creamy, poorly shade-matched drugstore concealer. She would layer so much product onto her pimples that the merchandise would ball up on her skin and tint the zits from red to orange - still standing out on her face, just in a tone slightly more reminiscent of her actual flesh. Was she wholly pleased with her made-up face? Not entirely - she wanted skin as smooth and cheekbones as cut as the women she watched on YouTube. However, she knew that this clumsy approximation carried more social value among her peers than her bare, dotted face did. Why? Because it exemplified her effort - it showed her willingness to try. Even though you can still see her perceived deficiencies, you can also see her desire (and failure) to obscure them fully. And in many realms, the desire and failure to be a perfect woman is the next best thing to being the perfect woman herself. Refusing effort altogether would display a refusal of improvement and modern people - and women, more specifically - are socially sanctioned as nothing if not perpetual works in progress.
Our world rewards those who try - or at least, it says it will. There is a special kind of low-brow reverence - a sympathy - awarded to those in intolerable situations who appear perpetually uncomfortable with their circumstances and desire to alleviate their burdens. Humans are fed the success stories of singular figures who understood the value of “trying” - of playing the numbers game, staking their wages on repetition, iteration, and adjustment. Those heroes refused not to try - rejecting the undertaking simply wasn’t an option. The common person’s challenge lies in the fact that trying is not a guarantee, it’s an attempt. It’s easy to grow weary after many rounds in the ring, unable to land a blow. At times, it feels like there’s more glory in laying in a ditch than attempting to summit Everest, growing dizzy and falling.
I find protection in setting my standards low. In career - in life - it feels like making a deep-seated ambition known is like speaking a thousand-year-old curse. Once uttered, it can’t be unsaid or unconsidered. It becomes the elephant in the room and the voice in the back of my head, as I type, toil, and crumble. It becomes the ruler upon which I’m automatically measured, pencil notches on the wall behind my stunted scalp. It’s like performing onstage without your costume, skin bare to a cynical audience. If you don’t desire anything, you don’t risk gain, and you don’t risk loss. You get to know what to expect.
Instead of uttering the big, bad thing I want and making strides towards it, I have a habit of misplacing my tries - and perhaps, my desires. This is easy because, once again, our world awards those who try, especially those who try to subscribe further to a dominant agenda, even if that agenda is meaningless. It’s like a character in a heist movie causing a diversion, directing enemy attention elsewhere. I keep myself busy, I keep myself distracted.
I’m quite comfortable with distractions because I’ve been scattering my efforts for quite some time, under the heavy thumb of womanhood. Girls and women are encouraged to direct their efforts toward fleeting ends - towards youth, beauty, and men, but ultimately towards goals that require disproportionate concern for appearance and consumption. Copious hours and mental energy are directed at grooming and considering one’s external perception, towards scheming up ways to drum up a man’s affection. Niche online communities exacerbate this misdirection, either by churning out deprived lifestyle content, encouraging one to tap into their “feminine” energy to attract romance, or teaching others how to manifest a visually beautiful life into fruition. Women think and pray - and buy and consume - this life into existence, expending dollars, time, and energy.
What these online communities exemplify is rigor, commitment, and a willingness to exert. But how consequential is hard work when it is for a hollow end? I fall into this trap as a woman and as a worker. The comfort and staleness of an American corporate career has its charms. I never thought that predictability could be so intoxicating - shallow highs, insignificant lows, a calm wave rode to a cushy, unimportant grey island. In a world containing so much hurt, it can feel worth it to give up the potential of triumph for the promise of no pain. Reliability and balance - all anchors that I tout on and offline. If I just keep my head down - organize my spreadsheets, draft my emails - perhaps I’ll be granted the courtesy to sleep through any storms. If I fuss over my hair more, maybe I won’t have to fuss over my sense of self as much. These banal delights have banal ends.
I’ve basked in the pleasant bliss of not trying, at least not genuinely trying. Of overvaluing life’s busy work, and undervaluing the work I’m passionate about. Of fixating on others’ opinions of me. Of chasing my tail, eating the sweet delusions that are served up in generous helpings - eyes focused on the next ladder of the corporate rung or on tinting my blemishes from red to orange. I’ve tried to keep my mind distracted and occupied like a parent waving a toy behind a camera, coaxing a smile out of their child. But I’ve grown too cognizant of my tricks to continue playing dumb. I’ve grown more aware of what I want and what matters to me - and it’s no longer spreadsheets, spotless skin, and mundanity - if it ever even was.
Whether it was army crawling my way toward a satisfactory GPA, landing my first job out of college, or rising at 5:30 AM to doll myself up for homeroom - I’ve proven to myself that I can work hard, that I can display discipline. But where I place that hard work and discipline matters. As a woman and American worker, those efforts - that tenacity - are often exploited, pushed towards ends that don’t ultimately serve me or my community, but that instead line the pockets and bellies of a select few. Rejecting the work in favor of doom scrolling through life isn’t what will put an end to it - but redirection might set off a chain. I’m learning to redirect my rigor and spirit more fully toward what matters to me - for one, writing. I’m daring to utter the thousand-year-old curse. Nothing happens when you do nothing.