Don't Tell Me What To Do

My Dear Aster,

What? You expect me to be all introspective and mindful now? What the crap are these shenanigans? Well, fluff you, and the donkey you rode in on! [I say I won’t do it, Ronny!]

Anyhooms, let’s talk about expectations.

The Tighter the Noose, the Higher the Pressure

So, I am starting with my expectations for people, because I feel that this is a simpler place to begin. If we imagine the social world around me as a circle with me at the center, my expectations for the people in it are proportional to their proximity to me. This is probably why I tend to expect strangers to be shitty until they prove otherwise. I don’t generally expect to encounter decency or common sense in anyone I meet, but I am very grateful for the many people and situations that actually prove me wrong.

The closer the social boob gets to the nipple, however, the higher my expectations are. My poor significant other — you can imagine his plight. “I am not a mind reader, babe” is a phrase that might as well be carved into our headboard.

You, my dearest Aster, never disappoint, of course; you are impeccable. And this is likely due to the ample amount of character similarities you and I share. (Yes, reader, our contrasting monikers notwithstanding, we are just as alike as we are opposite.)

Despite this, when regarding myself, I tend to focus on the negatives, and the expectations of perfection never stop. Admittedly, this quality is responsible for most of the academic achievements, professional accolades, and personal accomplishments in my life. But at the same time, it is also the cause of perpetual anxiety and the target of lifelong therapy.

Turning the Tables

Now, let’s address the external expectations that affect me.

First of all, the moment I feel that there is an expectation of any sort, I immediately feel less inclined to do the thing expected. Even if I love to do the thing, even if I was already halfway into doing the thing, even if I was the one who originally chose to do the thing — if I know that someone out there is waiting for me to do it, I automatically want to lay down on the floor and flail about whilst yelling at the top of my lungs, like a toddler in a Home Depot aisle. This, I think, is pretty typical, and many people might share this contrarian quality.

Next, I recently came across the fascinating theory about procrastination being a genetic product of our evolution. Essentially, the idea here is that when all we had to worry about is basic survival, when our sources of stress were immediate, our reactions were also relatively instantaneous. For instance, if my caveman ancestor saw a lion charging towards them, they wouldn’t have time to agonize over this source of stress and danger; instead, they would need to think fast to save themselves, and regardless of the success of this venture, the whole ordeal would be over in a few seconds. Our modern existence, however, presents us with sources of stress that can be days, weeks, months, and even years away. So, procrastination can actually be a mode of self-preservation — our way of delaying the need to stress until it is absolutely necessary.

To me, expectations of completing something give me a lot of stress, which in turn causes me to procrastinate a ridiculous amount. I am absolutely certain that if there were no deadlines, no assessments, no expectations of any kind, I would actually be a lot more consistently productive. Instead, I use the stress of expectations as a sort of whip to make myself get shit done in a frenzy. And while it’s worked out for most of my life, it is something that I would love to change.

Incidentally, that study that discusses the evolution of procrastination also links it to impulsivity, which is, as we know, one of my other prominent features. It is also the thing that causes me to rebel against expectations, ironically enough.

So, I is a tangled web of having high expectations for myself, disliking others’ expectations for me, relying on those expectations to get shit done on time, and, of course, wishing those expectations didn’t even exist. Translation: I am an illogical mess, but you love me anyway. Pbbbt.

Love,

Orchid

P.S. There are so many things that I know I have already forgotten. Awful things, beautiful things, tiny things, more significant things. The older you and I get, the more we will fall victim to a sort of Mandela effect, when we remember our lives in a way that might differ from the memories of others and from reality, if there is such a thing. Does this scare you? What are the things you desperately want to keep? What are the things you are okay with letting go of? Sometimes, I actually find my own remembered versions of events more entertaining or interesting than their real versions. Are there any stories from your past that you find yourself embellishing or adjusting in your own mind? What are the reasons for this? In general, what is your relationship with your own memory?

[Currently listening to Manu Chao's "Mi Gustas Tu". ¿Qué voy a hacer? Je suis perdu. ¿Qué horas son, mi corazón?]