On convergence
Hypothesis:
The detection of patterns, in spite of it being the basis of our cognitive process, is usually disconcerting when you are conscious of it.
First moment:
I am sitting at the cafe and a middle-aged woman waves her hand between my face and my book. I have my headphones on. I'm absorbed in Habermas. She wants to take the other chair at my table. OK. Go. Take it. Stop bothering me. To my dismay, she merely turns it 180˚ and sits down. Three of her friends join her and proceed to talk loudly about their lives. They exchange mundanities at a volume that not even my earbuds can drown out: tales of the bitchy lady at work, the terrible date, the shoes that were on sale and so cute. These are the moments that matter to them.
Rather than wallow in my bitterness at being interrupted, I try to remind myself that this happens to so many of us and simultaneously make a mental note: Don't lose sight of your dreams, lest you end up at a cafe on a weekend feigning interest in the dullness of your friends' lives. If you don't have dreams, borrow someone else's. Anything but this.
Second moment:
Two weeks ago, after a hiatus of roughly six months, I braved Thursday at Burt's Tiki Lounge once again. Their Thursday night dance parties became popular about a year and a half ago and it's now the event of the week for everyone who is anyone. It has become so popular that the truly hip hipsters have sloughed it off for something else. Although the crowd had changed somewhat, the scene remained mostly the same: sweaty twenty- and thirty-somethings drinking cheap beer, some drunkenly swaying to the beat, everyone else attempting to have a conversation over the blaring sounds of mostly-obscure artists in an effort to find someone to go home with. I don't recognize most of the songs. One starts and really sticks out, though: "Time to Pretend" by MGMT. They were playing this when I used to come regularly. The crowd's response is the same. Girlfriends frantically look for each other in the crowd so they can dance together. Wallflowers emerge from the bench at the behest of their friends. It's catchy. A good song. Heartfelt. Youthful.
Then you actually listen to the lyrics. This isn't a testament to youthful shenanigans and the thrill of finding models for wives. It's a plaintive ballad underscoring the realities of growing up, coming to terms with the course of coping with life, and the effective loss of innocence. It's about realizing the futility of dreaming in the face of overwhelming probability. I close my eyes and try to remember where I am, what I should be doing, and try to forget the entropy of adolescent fantasy.
Adulthood: anything but this.