Adulthood Fight Club
Why does no one warn you? It's like there are mysterious Fight Club rules that remain unspoken yet are woven into every fiber of being of those in the know. The deep, deep, hauntingly bottomless unknown of adulthood.
When you transition from elementary school to middle school, you are warned. From middle school to high school, you are warned. From high school to college, you are warned. And not in vague jargon, casually fleeting generalities, or the all too present somber head nod. But in concrete realities. How to operate the lock on your locker. Where to buy your gym uniform. How to pick your classes.
And then you proudly move your tassel from one side of your graduation cap to the other and you blindly enter into the abyss. Of jobs, of finding a residence, of positioning yourself meaningfully in a world devoid of a universally agreed upon meaning. And each of the aforementioned measures of adulthood are so much more than letters strung together to form a word we can cognitively categorize. Their implications are so far reaching they cannot be contained in a page, a book, or even a lifetime.
And that's just it. We only have one lifetime. An existence so paradoxical in nature it's both inspiring and debilitating. So what do we do? And how do we do it? Carve out a life, full of blood, sweat, and tears, one hammer strike at a time. Contribute to a community where connection is more often associated with cell phone service than face to face, soul-bearing vulnerability. Make decisions when navigating an unprecedented number of options. When everyone is connected, no one is connecting. When everything is an option, nothing is chosen.
I want to proclaim the rules of Adulthood Fight Club from the top of every pile of rejected applications. Whisper them to every person crying in the bathroom stall, trying to silence their common suffering. Chant them with all those struggling. Struggling to discover their purpose, sick of commodifying themselves, grappling with a place or person to call home.
And in doing so, stripping and demolishing the Rules of all their secrecy, of all their power. Because what's better than an exclusive Club? An inclusive Club.
When you transition from elementary school to middle school, you are warned. From middle school to high school, you are warned. From high school to college, you are warned. And not in vague jargon, casually fleeting generalities, or the all too present somber head nod. But in concrete realities. How to operate the lock on your locker. Where to buy your gym uniform. How to pick your classes.
And then you proudly move your tassel from one side of your graduation cap to the other and you blindly enter into the abyss. Of jobs, of finding a residence, of positioning yourself meaningfully in a world devoid of a universally agreed upon meaning. And each of the aforementioned measures of adulthood are so much more than letters strung together to form a word we can cognitively categorize. Their implications are so far reaching they cannot be contained in a page, a book, or even a lifetime.
And that's just it. We only have one lifetime. An existence so paradoxical in nature it's both inspiring and debilitating. So what do we do? And how do we do it? Carve out a life, full of blood, sweat, and tears, one hammer strike at a time. Contribute to a community where connection is more often associated with cell phone service than face to face, soul-bearing vulnerability. Make decisions when navigating an unprecedented number of options. When everyone is connected, no one is connecting. When everything is an option, nothing is chosen.
I want to proclaim the rules of Adulthood Fight Club from the top of every pile of rejected applications. Whisper them to every person crying in the bathroom stall, trying to silence their common suffering. Chant them with all those struggling. Struggling to discover their purpose, sick of commodifying themselves, grappling with a place or person to call home.
And in doing so, stripping and demolishing the Rules of all their secrecy, of all their power. Because what's better than an exclusive Club? An inclusive Club.
Comments
Post a Comment