Do everything once. I'm told that someone wise, or else just ubiquitous, said this one time. Obviously, it's terrible advice, so I'm not going to do that. But in its idiocy lies a point.
Just as our generation is afraid of commitment, we are afraid of not being committed enough, and often, this pointless dilemma keeps us from picking up new passions, giving them a try without expectation and letting them go just as easily. For a long time, I was a slave to this reliable guilt machine. I would start something new, bright−eyed, gung ho, and then feel bad when it inevitably drove me to boredom a week later.
The problem is, despite my dwindling enthusiasm, I love nothing more than the excitement of a new craft. It may be surprising to learn that as a senior I went to the Tufts gym for the very first time two weeks ago. (The second time, I ended up collapsing from dehydration, proving my dwindling enthusiasm sometimes useful, but that's neither here nor there.)
Other things I've tried without much intention of long−term devotion: kept a burn book, joined a Weezer cover band, joined a flash mob, joined the circus.
There are so many things left to do before I graduate and hole up in a thousand−dollar cubic foot somewhere in Brooklyn with only my laptop and job applications to keep me warm. If I don't try them now, how will I know I was not meant to be a pickup artist or a cat caller or a Buddhist monk?
Which is how I came to the inconclusive conclusion that maybe, while I can still afford it, my calling in life should be simply … not to have one. To dip my toes into all fields instead of choosing one; dabble; embrace my dilettantism, just this time with intention.
And that's what I plan to do. Each week, I will forage into an unknown world in the hopes of learning something new — but without the pressure of needing to. I'll welcome the surge of vehemence that encourages me to start things with full force but cut out the guilt that results if I don't follow up with equal zeal. After all, without that vehemence, I may have never climbed a tree or surfed into a shark or shot a rifle.
Or become a hedonist. My closest friends remember this Dionysian phase of mine fondly if for nothing else than because, I'm told, my strong−headedness about the most nonsensical of matters was of entertainment value to almost everyone around me. My mantra was do what I want to do; don't do what I don't want to do. And that pertained to everything short of not calling my parents (I'm still a Manhattanite Jew). Working, sleeping, eating, showering, listening to people, going to class — these were all elective activities. Of course, I wasn't a sadist. When not working became stressful, or I was bored of somersaulting or whatever indulgent activity was occupying my time, of course I would sit down and write an essay.
And then, just as quickly, I grew bored of eating waffle sundaes four meals a day, sleeping for fifteen hours at a time, not sleeping at all and playing music on the grass, and finally gave up the hippy−dippy crap and got on with my life.
But with my return, I realized how many things we don't do that we'd like to. Since then I've tried out a few — some even more than once — and I plan to continue doing so. Hopefully most won't be as inane as hedonism or as dangerous as hanging out in shark−infested waters. Perhaps in the process you'll even be able to collect something from my successes and failures, though that's quite a lofty goal. All I know is that right now, I have about forty−five two−minute dates to go on that I'll likely be wanting to tell you about next week.
--
