“Very often a change of self is needed more than a change of scene.” ~Arthur Christopher Benson
Part of my major was Economics and though I did well in college level economic courses in high school, college was significantly more difficult. I retain very little information when it comes to math or science, which is why my attention span for the production possibilities frontier waned after the first 20 minutes. Those precious moments were instead used to think sweet thoughts of J. Crew and how to perfect a keg stand. The one thing I will always recall is the law of Diminishing Marginal Utility (DMU). With ‘utility’ being satisfaction, the premise follows that as a person increases their consumption of a product, there will be a decline in the satisfaction (utility) that the person derives from the consumption of each additional unit of that product. It’s the law that keeps Chinese Buffet in business as they know that while it’s technically ‘All you can eat’ no one is going to eat seven plates of orange, MSG filled, faux Chinese ribs even if the first plate is so awesome, the subsequent plates of ribs will be less awesome and then you’ll you want to vomit. Not that I know from personal experience or anything.
Lest you think that I’m extolling all of my economic knowledge on you, I have been finding that DMU applies to most everything. Like on Sunday, when we went apple picking, Matza and I each bought a dozen hot apple cider donuts. In years past she had to overnight them to me individually wrapped in order to retain their delicious freshness and I would have one – who the hell am I kidding? Three – and share the rest. I was able to eat them fresh out of the bakery this time so we both had one in the car on the way to the apple trees. Then because I was doing most of the work and demonstrating my flexibility by arching my back to get under a tree to a perfectly shaped apple, I was exhausted at the end so I had another. Then I got home and The Roommate wasn’t there so while watching Tell Me You Love Me, I had two more. There were other insignificant events that mostly involved me sitting in front of google reader and then going to the gym but each time I felt inclined to have a donut even though by the 10th (I shit you not), the allure of the crispy outside and the soft cake-like inside made me want to die. So I did what any smart woman who doesn’t need a larger ass would do; I dumped half a bottle of Downy Wrinkle Releaser on the last two donuts. On Monday, I survived on two apples and a bowl of peas.
I’m writing this from a hotel in DC, where my satisfaction of coming back to one of my favorite cities in the world, has significantly declined. The first time I came back to DC it was great, the second time still pretty good; I could see my friends, shop in Georgetown and buy as much organic seven dollar oatmeal from Whole Foods as I wanted. This trip will last until Saturday and it is my fourth in two months. If DC were donuts or plates of lo mein from the Chinese Buffet, I would have wretched all over the bathroom floor by now. It’s not that I don’t love it here, because I do and everything will always and has since compared to DC, it’s just that I have had this very large tub full of sweaters and boots sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor for like six weeks now. Every morning I have to choose which side to get out of bed based on what I fancy ramming my toe into that morning. Will it be the suitcase full of God knows what? Or maybe I’ll go for the hamper and the box of books? It’s like a fun little guessing game I like to call “How will I fuck up my toe?” and my big toe always loses.
At a fundraiser last night, people couldn’t believe that I lived in upstate NY and continually asked if I was happy and if it was good and how in the world people survived outside of the beltway. The answer is very, very easily. I might complain and compare and might punch the next person who tells me in excruciating detail what it will be like the first time I try to park in my neighborhood after it snows; yet my satisfaction of being in upstate NY has yet to diminish, in fact it’s finally starting to show.
24
“Birthdays are good for you. Statistics show that the people who have the most live the longest.” ~Larry Lorenzon
When I was eight, before the world was dominated by Bushs and Clintons, I made this timeline of every event in my life from my high school graduation to when I would get married and start having children. 24 was apparently the age that my eight year old mind thought would be a good time to start in on the whole marriage and parenting one-two punch. Normally I’d say that my eight year old self was high, but instead I will say Aww. Because eight year olds are cute and wistful and think that 24 is ‘old’. Eight year olds have yet to become cynical and pessimisstic. They are wonderfully optimistic most of the time and one must admit that it can be adorable.
Today is my 24th birthday and I am a tad more pragmatic and would like to set my goals a little lower. All I really want is to have a good year. There are also more personal things like the ability to eat a burrito without analyzing every bite and calming the fuck down because some things won’t ever change. But other than that it’s all very simple and the rest written down and tucked away for a rainy day. I think that if I told my eight year old self that having a baby at 24 really wouldn’t bode well for her career (never mind what she would do if I told her that she would have enough money to fill her closet with shoes, because she HATED shopping with a passion) or for her relationship with her roommate, but at 24 there could be as many cupcakes as she wanted because her mother won’t be around to say No; then she would totally be down with that. So I think I’ll shuffle things around and save those major life events for another year.