I have found myself a place in the sun, I’ve poured a drink and I’ve opened my book. This ought to be bliss. I have managed to manufacture a reader’s paradise and should, by rights, be in for a few hours of total happiness. And sure, it’s nice. The sun is a little hot, a bee keeps dive bombing me and my mind does insist on drifting back to the work I should be doing but this is still the perfect moment, right?
I’m not sure when I really became aware that my brain is so obsessed with ticking boxes and extracting the most out of a ‘perfect’ moment that it keeps me at a remove from genuinely enjoying it. It’s almost like play acting at enjoying myself. I know this moment should be wonderful, so I tell myself it is. I then get very stressed out if I somehow fail to get every last ounce of pleasure out of it that I possibly can. Whether I’m reading in the sun, touring a new city, watching my favourite show at the theatre or even just eating my favourite meal, if I’m not absolutely on cloud 9, then I find it souring the moment. My expectations of the experience and myself are just too high; the irony is that this ends up turning what could have been a lovely (if not the most lovely ever) moment into a hollow source of anxiety and leaves me with a sense of anti-climax. It’s so counterproductive it’s almost funny.
So I tell myself to slow down. Force myself to enjoy the individual elements of something for what they are. Remind myself that it’s okay to be happy, rather than overjoyed. Even if I have picked the perfect spot and my drink is just the right temperature, there will always be a bee trying to swim in it. There’s so much that’s out of my control and that isn’t a failing on my part. I need to stop hunting for textbook perfection, look the other way and just let joy take me by surprise.