Fantasy vs. Reality

Does Adulting Have a Happy Ending?

Re-entry from Disney World is a bitch. See entire post below.

I’ve yet to acquire the taste for reality. 

Other people seem to enjoy it while I think it’s pretty nasty, like fried chicken. 

I grew up a joyful, exuberant, bright-eyed optimist. A Who from Whoville. An adult who legit believes in magic and never even knew what human trafficking was before accidentally watching Taken because it starred Liam Neeson, or as I knew him, the handsome, sensitive dad from Love Actually. 

Some may call it naivety, but it’s much more intentional than that. It’s more like I am on a life-long strike against reality. However, I exist in reality, so you see the conundrum. 

The older I get, the more reality keeps creeping up on me like some sketch dude at a bar. This is my dance space, that is your dance space. Back off or I’m going to pepper spray you. 

I’m not talking about the harsh reality of Very Bad Things. When Very Bad Things happen, normies may feel sad for a bit and then move on with their Hulu-streaming lives. I spiral down into a full existential crisis, scream and cry on the floor of my closet for weeks, and contemplate things such as living in a mud hut where no one can ever find me even though I really hate bugs. I’ve learned to do a pretty good job at keeping Very Bad Things at bay, though, with rigid boundaries like only watching Disney movies and never the news. Blissful ignorance, table for one. 

The reality creep I’m talking about is the daily, monotonous, dull ache known as middle age.

Life is cyclical, but it used to feel so full of excitement, possibility, and energy. Now, in my forties, it’s waking up to an alarm at 6am, school drop off, work, exercise, more work, make dinner, do dishes, pick up toys, take a bath, and go to bed at 8:30pm. Every. Damn. Day. Except for the weekends when there’s way more dishes to do and way more toys to pick up and I maybe go to bed at 10pm like a motherfuckin’ gangsta!!!! This is not a frictionless routine. Along the way, there are countless, tedious micro-frustrations like miniature hammers pounding you all day. And…we’re out of milk. And…my battery died. And…I need to get gas. And…what’s this puddle on the floor? And…I forgot to take out the trash. And…didn’t I just pick this up? And… 

Is this really all there is?

My dear friend who voted me Most Likely to Join a Cult ends some of our conversations by reminding me that if a van pulls up and the driver says, “there is a better way; let me show you,” that I am not to ask him to wait a moment while I grab my daughter and some undergarments. She’s joking(ish), yet everyday I continue to think there must be a better way.

I’m constantly plagued with questions like: Is this for realz what we’re on the planet to do with this one precious life? If I die right now, am I going to be glad that I went out on this large pile of clean, yet-to-be-folded laundry? Is human existence supposed to be this tiresome?

Always ready for a healthy dose of perspective, I’m reading Matthew Perry’s memoir so I can go to bed reassuring myself that at least I’m not a drug addict. Yet, like any good cautionary tale, I find myself with more in common with him than not—he’s also a firm reality-rejector who thinks there must be a better way. (We both also had the near-death horror of impacted bowels post Oxy—mine after my C-section—which is a story for another day once I’ve healed from my trauma and can turn it into the funniest poop story ever. But Matty, I feel you, bro.)

A brilliant way to feel better in any sitch is to layer on a mountain of guilt, which I also do because nothing is even wrong. I see friends going through actual hardships like parents’ declining health and divorce or Very Bad Things like a child dying—and I’m just bitching in the suburbs about the neverending, mundane to-do lists that seem to make up too large a part of our human existence.  

My problem is not that I reject reality. It’s that I actually believe there is a better way. I fundamentally believe life should be joyful, easeful, and even euphoric. The saying goes that the struggle is real, but I think the struggle is a sign that something is wrong. And therein lies suffering. The constant nagging of believing that things should be and could be different. When we reject what is, we suffer. If you simply accept that reality is often hard, sad or boring, does that make you happier? I sometimes think about getting the words “IT IS” tattooed on my arm as a reminder to embrace reality, but I’m afraid my mother would murder me and that it may inadvertently look like “ISIS.”

Isn’t it always better when…

• you get a good parking space? 

• you’re in love?

• you get upgraded?

• the kids are laughing?

• the hero lives?

Isn’t it always worse when…

• the dishwasher breaks?

• you’re lonely?

• there’s no toilet paper?

• the kids are biting you like tiny cannibals?

• the hero dies?

A friend told me that he likes the struggle because he feels more deserving on the other side. I think he’s straight up cray. Would my life be more enjoyable if I liked the struggle of scrubbing day-old avocado-crusted dishes stacked in the sink while my daughter is whining for me to play camel? Sure. But I don’t understand how people can authentically embrace this. I fight that shit tooth and nail. I try to solve for it. How can I outsource this? Is there a single-use paper plate that’s not bad for the environment? Would a drink make this less annoying? Can I get Coco a real camel?  

To be clear, I’m no lazy bum. I enjoy a challenge that results in growth. Some of our greatest achievements in work, health, education, and spirituality come from this type of challenge. Bring on the stuff that helps us grow in this life as part of the human experience! But having to incessantly pick up the house every weekend like someone with OCD even though I do not remotely have OCD? I want off that hamster wheel.

One of my favorite books, The Hacking of The American Mind, makes the case that corporate America promises us long-term happiness (caused by serotonin release in the brain) only to deliver us short-term pleasure (caused by dopamine release in the brain). The more dopamine hits we get, the less sensitive we become to it and the more we need, thus creating an addiction loop, taking us further away from the things that bring us actual happiness. If you get hooked on sugar, a peach no longer tastes sweet. If you get hooked on alcohol, things aren’t as fun without a drink. If you get hooked on porn, real sex is less pleasurable. I’m hyper-aware of all this manipulation and actively avoid falling into these traps. And yet, I’m slowly realizing that I’ve been feeding myself dopamine hits of fantasy my entire life. Perhaps Hugh Grant rom-coms should have come with a Surgeon General’s warning. If you’re hooked on idealism, no wonder reality is like an ill-fitting dress that you wish you could return but you bought it on instagram late night and it took nine weeks to arrive from China so you’re pretty much stuck with it now. 

Well, crap. 

After years of imagining what life may have in store—great love, adventure, and plenty of hair-flipping laughter montages—of course the real thing feels a bit flat. How can our daily lives feel anything but a tad deflating when we are stuck in the grind? 

Acceptance seems key to ending suffering but reality isn’t even real which makes this all extremely confusing. If reality is more like a current vision of our immediate circumstances, doesn’t that mean it can be changed at any time? Must we accept the hardships of “real life” or is there indeed a better way? 

I once saw a show where a magician did a spectacular magic trick. The audience gasped and erupted in applause. We were elated. Then, the magician asked if we wanted to see how the trick was done. Everyone was hooting and hollering: YES! The lights turned up, the music turned down, and very slowly and methodically, he went through the trick again, pausing to clearly show us each step so we could all see the reality of what was being done. The mood shifted quickly. It felt somber, every step robbing us of the excitement we felt only moments before. It was meant to feel sad, a commentary on the beauty of suspending disbelief to feel wonder and awe, even if it is an illusion. I will always prefer the awe of seeing a magic trick more than the reality of knowing that a bird was actually crushed to death to make the trick work (the live show didn’t do that last part—can you imagine the crisis PR?—that’s from The Prestige, before my G-rated-only rule). 

I always say I crave something real (see loathing for surface level conversation), but maybe that’s not true. Maybe I just want the illusion. I want to live in a world where strangers break out in song and dance every once in a while and neighbors bring each other baskets of freshly baked muffins. I want an uncomplicated true love’s kiss after a luxurious, uninterrupted nap. I want nothing but laughter, joy, and a consistently clean casita. I want the fairytale to be reality.  

“Fantasy” is defined as impossible or improbable. “Reality” is defined as what actually exists, as opposed to an idealistic notion. So I keep asking my never-ending question: Why? Why must it be this way? Is there a better way? 

When do we get to start living happily ever after?