The Exhilaration of Living Your Life at a Slower Pace
A. . . Much. . . Slower. . . . . . . Pace.
Modern life is so fast fast fast always cracking, the phone always ringing, the globe spinning so quickly that you’ve gotta hold on as tight as you can, otherwise another whole species will go extinct and you won’t make it to the pharmacy before it closes and Bob will get the promotion you wanted and those cinnamon buns, the ones that come in a can, will burn.
Do we ever stop to wonder if this high-speed lifestyle is healthy?
Of course not! We have DEADLINES!
And deadlines don’t wait for dorks to tie their shoes the old-fashioned bunny way with the loops. Hippity hop hop, hippity hop hop, nope. Deadlines insist you power knot those strings with your fist clenched, then never ever take your shoes off again because you need to hit the ground running and only suckers take their shoes off to shower.
First you take your shoes off.
Then you start using separate bottles of shampoo and conditioner.
Then, before you know it, you have to schedule a whole half hour to cry as the water streams down your back.
It’s a slippery slope, my soapy friend.
Pro tip: It’s actually faster, if you want cinnamon buns for breakfast, to avoid the whole cooking part and just squeeze the icing directly into your mouth as you stagger toward the door. It’ll give you an extra boost for roughly three seconds.
Before you crash.
And end up facedown on the floor, your drool commingling with the carpet you didn’t have time to vacuum.
Maybe you should have vacuumed.
At some point last year.
Maybe we should revisit that whole idea of living life at a slower pace.
Are you okay?
Let’s pop you up, set you on those train tracks and get the fuel injector pumping verrrrrry slowly (I don’t know how trains work).
Left foot. Right foot.
This ain’t so bad.
Why don’t you left foot right foot your way right over to the couch?
Functioning is hard. At this particular moment in time it can feel impossible. It seems like the plates pile up faster than we could ever juggle them (or eat off them? what are we supposed to do with plates?) and everyone needs a side hustle and a passive income stream or two (spoiler alert: they aren’t really passive) to supplement their main Hustle with a capital H.
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If you have kids, heaven help you, I have no idea how you’re reading this article right now. If I had kids, I certainly wouldn’t be writing it. I’d be sticking my head in the toilet, begging for someone, anyone to flush so I could close my eyes and pretend I’m eleven again, at the water park with a big wave crashing down over me.
Slowing down is a luxury.
But sometimes slowing down is all we can do.
Otherwise we’ll find ourselves having a temper tantrum in the middle of the Whole Foods, because the soap costs more than a day at the spa. (You knew better than to go to Whole Foods, but you wanted to pretend you were fancy. This is your fault.) Then the security guard escorts us out of the store, but he does it all fancy-like, asking if we’d like a scented towelette and access to an app where we can send complaints to an attentive bot.
Running around like a maniac can be addictive. It’s true! It also makes for great stories. But there’s a unique exhilaration in taking your time.
Because it’s so damn extravagant.
You can get a little high off it.
Not a runner’s high.
But maybe a sitter’s high.
I think that’s what JOMO is supposed to be about.
Instead of humming birds, let’s all pretend we’re bears in the middle of winter. Let our heart rates drop. Let our breathing slow. Store up a bunch of body fat so we don’t have to send in Uber Eats orders every five hours. Find some really terrible television to fall asleep in front of. Turn off our phones. Ignore our coworkers calling to “just check in”. Ignore our children screaming for someone to drive them to school and make them food and tell them if their pants match their shoes. Ignore our partners begging us to just say one word that doesn’t have to do with comfy jorts.
Just concentrate on solidifying the butt indent we’re wearing into the couch.
Feels good, doesn’t it?
Maybe the weather changes. Maybe we lose our job. Maybe twelve different presidents come and go, our children graduate, our spouses retire and move to Florida (now called Fruitopia Old Peoplesville), our children have children, and the United States becomes a monarchy run by benevolent aliens. Maybe one day the movers show up and carry the couch out, with us sitting on it.
It’s all cool.
We are zen.
We are healthy.
Self care is important.
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