I do that damn hackneyed thing, where my whole world bathes into the aftermath blue water of a year just begun. It settles sometime in the tenths of January, when I, tired and maybe still coursing on the tide of glitter and festivity, return to my inevitable schedule (with no place for sleeping-in or going out, at least so decadently.)There’s a bitter itch of disappointment, because I, like everyone, set goals and make woes to start the year on a high, there is even that saying, that goes in a manner of “how you pass the New Years, is how your year will be.” But think about this, January 1st is always a hangover.
And while I look forlorn at the metallic-heel-sandals courtesy of Acne Studios and the midi-gold-pleated Gucci skirts, I wonder why I feel so blue and absent in my blue pullovers. I (and you too,) might take some incentive, reap what grows bountiful from being blue and mellow and a little overly obsessed with Wilde. Write something, take pictures, paint, parade my (your) summer wardrobe.
The post-Christmas colour bomb is now just Instagram pictures and Christmas decor you avoid taking off until absolutely, unacceptably late, un-naturally dyed bath bombs to give life some colour.
The concept of gold fading to blue, is New Years elation dissolving into the normcore responsibilities we’ve been dismissively neglecting. Christmas, to me, is the roaring twenties (sans casual racism, with threat of great depression.)
“It’s good,” you say, ever the disciple of deep Instagram quotes, because balance must exist in order for us to even know how to appreciate the good things. But you, with your Berkeley tome or iPad in hand, huddled in the pine-smelling apartment of yours, still dream of more such “merry times,” or maybe summer (if you like to skip right ahead to the good part.) But productivity, for most of us, demands to be abused into scheduled outputs, and deadlines must be met, and for must of us, deadlines in 2016 begin around the same time the blues kick in (coincidence?!)
The tragedy, is that I yearn for more, and cannot come to terms with the fact that achievement of my goals and dreams will come through not-necessarily-enjoyable-or-creative work and will take time. Why is it so painful a notion? I don’t want to wake up one day, late for my cubicle occupation, cooking my kids breakfast and missing my youthful days. Mediocrity is the Freddie Kruger of my life.
And I, obviously the protégé of productivity, president of workaholics developing insomnia worldwide club, CEO of Exhausted Inc.,™ have worked on this cocktail called “functional-dysfunctional” (wherein a dysfunctional individual fully functions in the real life, get it?) and made quite the drink.
To start, have a day you’ve planned to have: you picture it vividly, almost as if following through a script. Everything is perfect and you are the live embodiment of your online aesthetic, your day is candles and nude loungewear and great coffee, books, interior, macaroons. It seems you’ve attempted this day a few times, and have almost fulfilled the high expectation, until somehow you’ve broken your american-dream-nouveau by doing something unfitting of your aesthetic.
Do the thing, listen to music all day, take things calm and slow, read some Plath, dress nicely and don’t go out, eat meticulously constructed açai bowls, put on a Glossier face mask.
After this meditative day, make a list, buy a calendar. Yes, pathetic, never works… only if you don’t want to work (logically logical.) Plan your time out, especially if, like the author, you have an issue with deadlines and their malleability, or time in general is your enemy number one. Sorting through the mundane activities beforehand will prevent existential confusion.
Then, power through. Labor takes away all time to dwell on the short-lived life of your December alter-ego, who wore so much jacquard, colour and glitter, seemed sophisticated and was allowed champagne as preferred beverage to all meals.
When you’ve got week’s worth of work behind you, contemplate your accomplishments and compliment your endurance, go home and put on that navy comfortable sweater, and go to bed, forgetting you had eye cream patches on.
Ultimately, snow is falling; bundle up, enjoy it. Maybe the cold air will heave some life into the body, so accustomed to room temperature everything. Room temperature water, room temperature air, room temperature life.
– Alice Pylypenko
P.S – Allow yourself an actual cocktail.