Some areas of the Internet—the blogosphere at least—brim with cheer. Like formerly downward Christians back from a fresh revival they wipe inspired sweat from their brows and proselytize their message. Drunk on their own success they upliftingly decry a seemingly simple message of hope: do what you love. Or sometimes: follow your dream. There is just no way to be happy unless you do things that fill you with joy.
Well, no shit.
These people are grandparents that have forgotten the trials of parenthood. Trust funders raft-hopping in Thailand to get back to basics. Headlining pentagenarian rockers singing burnt-out-from-the-road lyrics—as if.
Listen up Internet cool-aid drinkers: I have a mortgage. I have a family. I have dogs and cats and a car loan. The bank, the grocery store, the vet, and the other bank don’t take bliss checks. They don’t even feign interest in my need for personal satisfaction and inner peace. They send me big envelopes with little envelopes inside. They don’t bother to pay for the return postage.
Yes, I got here on my own. I will get out on my own. I’ll get out by keeping my less than soul satisfying job and paying them off a little while longer. I’ve got practical debts and concrete needs. Those require satisfaction before I do.
I’ll defer my dreams, my passions, and my loves for later—maybe even for ever—so shut up with your fluffy bunnies and sunshine.
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