Thought Catalog


You sat at the edge of your bed, clutching your phone, waiting for a text from him. It wasn’t just that day. You’ve been waiting for days, even weeks for him to get back to you. For him to give you an explanation.

I’ve had holes in my jeans before, but I’ve never had a two-inch gash where my crotch goes. I’m splitting my pants right down the middle, like a vivisected turkey on Thanksgiving. I’m losing my tenuous grip on physical attractiveness. I see my hair thinning, my posture worsening and my bank account dwindling.

Mahler acts as a 120-piece orchestral therapist, allowing you to explore your melancholy, to know it, and ultimately to fold it into your own personal account of the human condition. They say Mozart makes babies smarter, but no one trains the emotional intelligence like Gustav Mahler.

So, you’re in your 30s, you’re a straight woman, and you’re single. You’re out there looking for a nice, mature man, one who longs to put his hand on your knee under the bar on Saturday night and lay his head in your lap to watch HBO dramas on Sunday while soup bubbles on the stove. One who has a job and a healthy relationship with his mother. One with a cute butt.

For awhile I swore by the mantra “we’re all exactly where we’re supposed to be.” It’s a comforting idea, and if you repeat it until you believe it you can use it to quiet down your restlessness. But it only really works when you’re actually satisfied. I don’t believe it consistently. We don’t always make the best choices for ourselves.

Just because you can squeeze tenuous meaning out of a symbol, a gesture, a word, a sentence, a picture or a grunt does not mean that the meaning is absolute. If meaning were absolute in a piece of art, it ceases to have a necessary element of art. It does not give a person the chance to decide for themselves.