Self-Reflective Snoring…

August 18, 2009

Self-Reflective Snoring…

As I lay beside him in the dark, he began to snore softly. He never snores. Well maybe he does. I wouldn’t actually know, as I am always, without fail, the first to fall asleep. Not feeling particularly sleepy, I slowly became lost in my own inner musings. After a stimulating inner debate on whether eating at local restaurants hurts the farming economies of the Mid-West and an exciting internal monologue on how the room could possibly still be so bright at 10 pm, I was finally overcome by the peacefulness of my surroundings. In my slightly darkened room, with a snoring man’s hand on my thigh, I realized that what I was feeling, was contentment.

As soon as I identified the feeling, I dismissed it with an overly analytical snark. How could I possibly be content with this? I rent a one bedroom apartment with popcorn ceilings in what I often call Woodland Hills, but if I’m really being honest with myself, is Canoga Park. The comfy bed I dream in every night is not a Pottery Barn Valencia Sleigh with 400 thread-count sheets, but his old Ikea frame adorned with a variety of old 90’s hip-hop band stickers. I just found out that I will be losing the job that I thought would become my career, and when I glance down at my left hand, I am most definitely not blinded by the glare of a 1.5 carat princess cut. I’m turning 30 in a month, and have not met any of my predetermined benchmarks. In the grading scale of life, I fail. So why do I feel such a pleasant easiness ?

If any one of my friends presented me with the same scenario, I would immediately launch into an inspirational diatribe on how the standards of society should not determine what makes you happy. But I can’t convince myself of the same. To stop wanting, is to stop moving forward, is to stop achieving, is to remain stagnant, is to die. Despite what I said as a snotty 21-year-old, I really don’t want to die at 30. I’ve always been ambitious, and yet lying in bed on a Monday night, I feel strangely at ease with mediocrity. Did content and ambition finally learn to get along, or was my ambition silently suffocated without my noticing?

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