The strangest thing about life is that people talk about it like it’s this thing that’s separate from themselves. They envision their “Life” as being this thing that is out there somewhere, waiting to be lived. You talk about it as if you’re outside of it and controlling it, but really you’re inside of it and it’s controlling you. And yet life is really the thing that you do every single day.
The capital L Life, the one people talk about out loud, is climbing mountains, and quitting your job to go back to school to do what you’ve always wanted, and biking through Southeast Asia, and doing the Iron Man, and raising money for cancer research. The little l life is the real one, the one that consists of waking up, going to work, cleaning the bathroom, cooking meals, walking the dog, getting a beer with a friend, going to Target to buy shampoo, fixing the leak in the ceiling, hanging up pictures on the walls, watching Mad Men, making the bed, doing laundry. The thing I’m still trying to figure out is how to capitalize the l in my Life, because I’m stuck in lower case.
For the past eleven years of living in Philly, I’ve been living life without knowing it. I’ve always been biding my time, waiting for Life to kick in, as if it was something that would just happen without my help. I never thought that time was counting toward the total. But looking back I can see how much it adds up. And now here I am.