During a recent conversation with a friend of mine—a senior who is trying to decide where to go next year—a lot seemed to rest on two uncomfortable questions: When does real life start? How do you get there? And along the same lines—if we haven’t reached real life yet, what on earth have we been doing until now?
As that foreboding precipice known as graduation sneaks ever closer, I’m starting to realize that this “real life” we’re waiting for is somewhat spectral; it’s always creeping up at the corners, but never actually materializing.
For years, we’ve been under the impression that what really counts is getting to the next level. You have to do well in high school to get into a good college, have a good GPA to get the job you want, etc. The choices we make now matter, therefore, because they will impact our lives in the future.
And yet, as we approach the end of traditional schooling and the stair steps fall away, it’s difficult to figure out exactly what we’re working for now. My older brother spent much of our childhood yelling at me when I made some trivial error, saying that “they’re not gonna tolerate these mistakes in ____!” The blank is filled by whatever level comes next: middle school, high school, college, and now, usually, a sort of confused stare. What comes next? Whose approval am I supposed to worry about now? Without the clarity of knowing the next transition, what is it all for?
I remember reading a concert review by a slightly older music reviewer (that’s late-20s in my world), wherein he described the band and the audience as all being of the same mindset, still conscious of life as a river that carries you forward, and still seeing everything as imbued with special purpose. It’s a mindset, he said, only recognizable by those who have left it, and the whole thing was poignant and sad. Granted, I am very susceptible to poignancy, but as my river slows down I do have to wonder, Where were we going? Forward into what?
The question, it seems, is whether life is a journey or a destination. How long do I keep doing things in order to reach an end goal, and when do I just decide that where I am and what I’m doing now is the end goal? Do I go to class and try really hard so I can do what I want when I grow up, or do I decide that I am already grown up and where I want to be and decide to go to Venice instead? Do I move to New York City even though I don’t like the grad program as much there, because New York is where I want to be when I grow up? Are my friends now the friends who will be at my wedding? Will they be my children’s godparents? Will they be at my funeral? Have I made it to real life yet?
I’ve got a good friend who is convinced that real life starts at 30, and nothing really counts until then. He seems pretty happy, so maybe he’s right. I’ll take one more delay, and make turning 30 the ultimate cliff, beyond which is, of course, freefall. I don’t know what the answer is, and I don’t think the questioning will ever stop. Maybe the whole idea of there being a difference between “real life” and some other form of existence is just a lie we’ve got to rise above. Maybe I just need to grow up.
