The Discomfort Of Being Comfortable

It’s a common feeling, one that creeps up on you every so often, so slight that you don’t pay attention until you realize that you’re 30, single and binge watching Netflix with Tate’s chocolate chip cookie crumbs stuck between your boobs. I can remember to a few years back when I actually went to the movie theater and stood online to see a movie on opening day; today one doesn’t have to get up from a mountain of sheets in order to watch every possible sci-fi, drama or comedy show available and fall into a warm food coma after abusing Seamless.

Then you start thinking of all the events and things you can be doing instead: that new rooftop bar that just opened, because I definitely want to spend $22 on a mediocre cocktail made by a second rate version of Jamie Dornan. Or I can go to the new gallery down in Soho and pretend to understand the overpriced “art” no matter how close you get to the black dot on the canvas. Perhaps I can attempt to run in Central Park and scope out the handsome young professionals glistening with sweat. Who am I kidding? The third season of Orange Is The New Black debuted and I couldn’t wait to see the inmates and their shenanigans.

When you actually stop and think about the unlimited possibilities a city like New York has to offer, an overwhelming fear takes over, a fear of missing out. But I want to be standing ankle-deep in mud at a music festival as a tween wearing an identical outfit sways because she can’t handle the Miller Lite. Amateur. And I want to walk around the Met to explore the Japanese carving tools used thousands of years ago. Oh and that time I went to the park with a book, secretly hoping that an artsy, hipster (who doesn’t live in Williamsburg) strikes up a conversation because I really am reading that book and not pretending to peak his interest. I want to do all of these things and then some. Ask me to do something and I’ll pretty much agree to do it; except skydiving. You’re on your own there. Nonetheless, there are those days when I won’t get out of bed and excitedly watch episode after episode about women who went on murderous rampages. I can totally live on veggie crisps and hummus for a few weeks.

Comfort sets in and one doesn’t realize how each day flows into the next, week after week, month after month. Remote in hand, I peruse the shows that will go perfectly with a spicy tuna roll and my new plaid pajama pants. I can multitask and order this cute dress I saw on some blogger’s site while swiping left and right through potential suitors. This guy has great shoes but lives in New Jersey, swipe left. Oh he’s tall and loves to travel, swipe right. It’s a match! Maybe he’ll trek all the way to the Upper West Side and we can discuss our hopes and dreams. Wishful thinking as a week has passed and still, no message.

As I turn over to plug my phone in, this newly developed fat roll appears. Must. Go. To. Yoga. The cheap, sweaty studio where 30 stressed out NY-ers come to after work to groan after they’ve found their third eye. I know that’s definitely not going to happen because as 5:30 p.m. rolls around and I rush to the overly packed elevator, all I can think of is my bed and the half-read book I won’t finish. There’s always tomorrow. Thought Catalog Logo Mark


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