There’s nothing more disappointing than getting exactly what you want: the pink bike with the banana seat; a Cabbage Patch Doll; praline ice cream cake. The equation makes no sense: Ask for thing, get thing should equal pure joy. And there was joy, of course. But then, a kind of ache, after.
It doesn’t change, even when your tastes mature, and you want nicer, better things. Department store perfume. Pegged jeans. The guy your friend is kind of dating. I would never, ever do that now. But I did then: Said yes to meeting him, even though I met him at a friend’s pool party, which he had attended as another girl’s date. I was flattered, who wouldn’t be? He was good looking, a swimmer from the boys’ school (and clearly adept at slipping in and out of tricky situations). I went on a date, just one. I didn’t feel great. The fact that I didn’t feel worse, though, concerned me.
What you want could cost you, yes—money, time, a friend. But that’s not even what it is that’s so disappointing. After all, you paid for it, in whatever currency. It’s that anticipating a thing is so much better than having it. I order something online, and love that it’s on its way, love that there’s something coming, because it tells you so. There’s a delicious retail restlessness that takes hold. You can’t wait, but you can, and you must.
Imagine how things will be different when I have: a new phone, a smart power strip, that green lipstick that adjusts to your natural pH and tells you exactly what color pink you should be.
But the moment it arrives—that’s when the most thrilling part of it ends. You go from focused and intentional (look at you, making your own decisions, paying for it with your own money), to the recipient of a thing you like but probably don’t need, or need but don’t love, not for long. It’s the curse of material things: As soon as you have it in your hand: A new phone, a silk-trimmed cardigan, a can of dry shampoo—you realize that this is it, this is all this really is. A piece of metal, a piece of plastic, an aerosol full of fragrant dust. All of it is both material and immaterial.
I find the stuff I want most is the stuff I enjoy wanting—a day off, a night out, someone to love in a way that surprises and scares me. Who wouldn’t want all of those things? But then why is it that on my day off, I crank through work. And the night I have plans, all I want to do is cancel them.
I honestly don’t know what I would do if love just showed up at my door, fresh from the factory, flawless and shiny. I imagine you’d have to sign for it. You’d lift the lid off slowly, in awe of its smoothness, its intuitive design. You might worry that this might be it, the end of everything; you might yearn for the days you dreamt of it instead.