Work. Do. Be?

My mother says I work too hard.

She has felt this way as long as I can remember, but growing up her constant, motherly warnings of "you need to sitch-yo-self down somewhere," "don't take yourself so seriously, Carmen" and "when are you going to rest?" always confused me. I was hardly the biggest overachiever among my peers. The hallways of the schools I attended were filled with hundreds of scrubbed black, brown, yellow and pink faces, all glowing with possibility. Many of them wanted to be doctors, lawyers, veterinarians and marine biologists. (Actually, I think my entire class went through a marine biology phase in the fifth grade or so - some textbook had left us all obsessed with manatees.) I had only wanted to write, novels at first and then articles after my father insisted that journalism was a more stable way for a writer to make a living. Sure, I was involved. But the other kids were student government officers, captains of sports teams, torchbearers for important causes. I was smart, but no genius. Good, but not the best. Busy, but not too busy. At least that's how I felt back then...

I look back at my high school photos now and marvel. How did that girl do it?! My last year in high school I was co-editor of our school newspaper and a senior member of the Dance Company. I also held down a part-time job, completed a Research Practicum for the science and technology program, and managed a full course load including 2 AP classes. I did all of of this in addition to college applications, and had some pretty fruitful relationships.

I look at the pictures in amazement. That only slightly younger me was Superwoman, and I'm afraid I will never live up to her legacy. But then I begin to squint. I let my head lay to one side as the alternating questions of how? and why? begin to run through my head.

My senior year in college I led an on-campus Bible study and was the head choreographer for the associated dance group. I held an executive committee position in the Black Student Movement. I had a job as a Resident Adviser, served on the Union Board of Directors, completed two majors and planned a wedding. I managed it all, perhaps not as well as I did in high school (it helps to have someone who makes sure you get up for class), but well. Still, how? Why?

***

I feel lazy now, when I look at my peers. Like I'm not making good enough use of myself. Something pricks at me when I see them walking by so quickly, accomplishing everything in a day. To think, just seconds earlier I had been enjoying my stroll. How... unproductive.

***

I look at myself in the mirror now and resist the urge to hang my head. Instead, I stare. Few traces of the young woman I used to be remain. I have searched for her, tried to reconstruct her from memory. Her energy, her fire, is gone. Or perhaps it is somewhere hidden, buried underneath the layers of uniforms I wear and never take off, like a treasure. I think one day God went and hid it from me, knowing that if it remained at hand I would use up the sacred thing much too early in life, and on the wrong things. Hopefully.

At any rate it's not there. And to me, I am beginning to look old. Someone told me the other day I could pass for seventeen if I didn't open my mouth. But he doesn't know how bright my eyes used to be. He wasn't close enough to see the burgundy peeking through the skin of my eyelids, or the lines beginning to etch themselves on my forehead. Where did this come from? I'm not old; I'm 24! Young, and profoundly disappointed in myself for misplacing my multitasking skills somewhere between college graduation and here. Praying that I can fake it until retirement.

What is wrong with me? Do I have lupus? Maybe sickle cell? Perhaps it's some lethal, undetectable form of cancer that will make the fact that I only do some things (instead of everything) more acceptable. At my funeral, they will say, "even though she was sick, she still managed to do This." And then This will be enough.

Wishful thinking. Chances are that I don't have cancer, lupus, sickle cell anemia or any other get-out-of-doing-more free ailment. So, the questions return, slightly revised. How did I get so lazy? Why am I so tired?

The thrill is gone, and even though the things I do now hardly match the hustle that some expect of me - that I used to expect of myself - I hardly have the energy to sit up straight. In fact, I'm slouching now, writing this after a Friday night spent planning and working. It's not enough though. I could have done more. Honestly, though, I don't want to. But I will. I must.

Actually, you don't have to do any of this at all.

The thought presents itself, clear but gentle, and remains still for a few seconds. Then it proceeds to clink against the walls of my mind like a pinball, noisy, shiny and busy. However, making no valuable contact with my intellectual senses, it rolls back down and out of my head, settling in my chest.

It's heavy. I slouch a little more.

But if I didn't do this, what would I do? Without doing, who would I be? Why would I be? And how?

The answers that have been swirling around in my gut have recognized their chance. They threaten an uprising, first to overtake my heart, then my mind. But fear, old master, swoops in like a night rider and suppresses their liberation attempts. Good.

Sad, but good.

Truths such as those beg action. I am not ready. I'll choose not to think those thoughts tonight. For now, I'll just sleep. I have to wake up early tomorrow. I have a lot to do.

(P.S. I get it now, Mom.)