Author: Wes

I used to resent growing up in a quiet, sheltered neighborhood. Say bye-bye to spontaneity. No knocking on people’s doors or cruising around the streets on the bicycle; if you’d like to see a friend you must schedule a playdate first. In high school, I’d be jealous of the other kids who could just wander wherever they wanted without being supervised. Mostly I just felt lonely. I’d rebel by sneaking out to the grocery store instead of the park to buy a fancy soda.

It could always be worse. I grew up in a loving family, and at least it was safe enough for me to go outside (or stay indoors, for that matter). The bubble of security and genuine care freed me to think about other things instead of worrying about staying alive. Not every kid gets that chance.

Plus I had unrestricted Internet access, and could keep my social needs at bay by talking to oddballs in faraway places. And I could bug my younger brother whenever. You’ll have to ask him if he enjoyed that part.

~

Being sheltered and knowing that I’m being sheltered can carry both shame and fear. Shame that strangers would think of me as one of those entitled, overly coddled kids that pundits like to criticize in the news, and fear that those people may have been right. My reaction to that life narrative was just going bananas the moment I left home for university. That meant being open to meeting anybody strange or mysterious, or pursuing any adventure reckless, late night, or “for the story”. I had a lot of years to compensate for, I felt.

I can’t say that’s the best reaction, but it certainly made life more interesting.

~

I still resent the American suburb and what it represents (isolation, lack of respect for a vibrant public space), but now I think without that experience, I wouldn’t have been so eager to break out and explore the world.

So I am grateful.

Taking life advice from random signposts in the city isn’t the most refined approach to decision-making. But I feel stuck and lost, and will look for any excuse to keep going. You may as well stamp eat-pray-love on my forehead.

~

In her New York Times Modern Love piece, “Looking for Signs That It’s Meant to Be”, Liz Falletta writes:

“Like many people, I tend to write a story in my head about the future of any relationship before it has even begun, which means I’m constantly looking for signs that it’s either meant to be or not. If you’re unsure about a relationship, or unsure about the trajectory of your life in general, you’re more likely to grasp unusual coincidences or circumstances and give them greater weight than they otherwise deserve.”

I think Falletta is right. Would I give as much weight to this sign if I were already doing epic shit and happy with the direction my life is going? Probably not. But I’m a sucker for encouraging words, and I found the sign compelling enough to step through a side street and take a picture.

At best, it’s dorky. At worst, it’s procrastination or self-delusion. Searching for signs (real or imagined) as a way to gauge my progress is an indulgence when I’m scared and uncertain of the world. I’ve done the same by waiting for the approval of mom and dad, friends, and mentors before making big life decisions. In Toy Story, Woody does the same with his Magic 8-Ball.

~

Growing up means holding myself accountable for my own decisions and growth. That means experimenting and taking risks while I am still young, healthy, and unburdened, and it means experimenting and taking risks even when I am old, weary, and worried. Instead of waiting for the perfect conditions to build the kind of life I want, why not start now and just go for it?

Feeling scared is fine, perhaps even helpful. Feeling helpless and sitting frozen is less so.

750words is a website that encourages a daily habit: every day, write 750 words. That’s three pages a day. Doesn’t matter if you’re happy or miserable, you sit your ass down and write three pages. There is no prompt to follow, so I usually write whatever’s on my mind at the moment.

Buster Benson (the website creator) calls it a daily brain dump — something to “help clear your mind and get the ideas flowing for the rest of the day”. Calling it a brain dump is helpful for silencing any inner voice demanding perfectionism. I don’t need to write gold, I just need to write. Sometimes I’ll even leave a typo in, which would have driven a younger me nuts.

Today marks my 100th-day-in-a-row of writing. I’m quite happy with that.

100 days also happens to be the amount of time I’ve been on a job hunt outside of the academic lab. (That I am less happy about). I’m grateful to have a healthy habit to hold because unemployment is making me go bonkers.

~

Before this, my longest streak was about 80 days. That streak ended after I fell asleep watching Bojack Horseman one December evening last year. By the time I woke up at midnight it was too late. (Bojack Horseman is a cartoon that stars a self-pitying, talking horse who indulges himself every time he doesn’t feel good about himself and his decisions — which is every episode). I felt silly and dealt with my disappointment by indulging in more late-night cartoons.

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In Tiny Beautiful Things, Cheryl Strayed answers a letter from a reader who describes herself as “a pathetic and confused young woman of twenty-six, a writer who can’t write”. The reader asks: “How does a woman get up and become the writer she wishes she’d be?”

Strayed’s response: “Write like a motherfucker.”

This is one way of following her advice.

~

But wait, there’s more!

Each time you reach a milestone on 750words, you get a goofy, animal-themed pixel badge. It pleases me more than I’m willing to admit. You may as well dangle a carrot in front of me.

I did my usual run around the park and sprinted back home. Raymond and Mei were outside and on the way, so I said hello.

~

Raymond inverted the colors on his phone settings somehow, so black turns into white, green turns into magenta, and so on. High-contrast settings like that are useful if you’re sensitive to brightness or if you have difficulty distinguishing between colors (e.g. color-blindness), but it’s also annoying if you didn’t want it in the first place.

Raymond: “You young people probably know how to switch it back.”

I didn’t, but I wasn’t about to let a neighbor down. I held the phone at an arm’s length and started poking around the glass screen. (He says he doesn’t mind the sweat dropping from my face, but I’d feel like a knob end if I handed back a wet phone).

I found it five minutes later. For the iPhone, press General > Accessibility > Display Accommodations > Invert Colors.

~

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Hooray, another day saved. Time to hang up the cape and costume.

Every once in a while I’ll get a text from a stranger. I got this one yesterday from an area code in New York:

~

I wonder if John ever found who he was looking for. Either someone has fat fingers and pressed the wrong button, or they just gave John a throwaway number (mine) just to get him to buzz off.

Little did I know the University of California opened a retirement investment account for me while I was working in their research labs. A letter about it came in the mailbox, asking me what I’d like to do with the leftover account balance. I decided to roll it over to a Roth IRA (individual retirement arrangement in the U.S.).

It’s like finding surprise money inside some sofa cushions or in the back pocket of my old pants, except this time I can’t touch it until I’m 62 years old.

~

Will the world still be around by then? I hope so! And will I still be around? I hope so, too.

(even if I turn bald, har har — although that’ll probably be the least of my worries by then)

I showed up seven days early to an event for the San Francisco Design Week. I didn’t realize it until I was at the front door. Come by next week! they said. We’ll have beer! Six designers — all beautiful and beautifully dressed — escorted me down the elevator. One had a skateboard.

Driving to San Francisco from San José is a trek of its own, and I figured I’d make the most out of the occasion. (That’s the polite way of saying I sat in traffic for two hours to get here so I damn well better enjoy myself).

I bought a hot dog from a hot dog booth (Polish sausage with sauerkraut, five bucks) and wandered around like I usually do in an unfamiliar city.

Somewhere along 24th Street in San Francisco’s Mission District:

I had a coffee meeting in fifteen minutes and figured that squirming from holding my bladder in wouldn’t be a professional look. So off I went on a hunt for a bathroom in the city. I ducked into a McDonalds, the first one I found that didn’t have a keycode or padlock.

I open the bathroom door and the first person I see is a man eating a chicken burger. No extra fuss or pomp, just a dude enjoying a meal while in line for the urinal. Out of all the places in the city, why would he choose to eat there? The line is short, the tables outside are empty, and there is no public shame in eating a chicken burger. (Peter Singer may say something differently about the morality of eating meat in general, but that’s another issue.)

I could rack my head for potential stories and plot twists, but sometimes the simplest explanation is the truth — the guy was just hungry.