Lexi Robinson. I met her at the Starbucks on the curb between West 34th and Broadway. It was 2:30 pm and I needed a coffee. In this world, Starbucks is like a gas station. Refill, refuel, piss and go. I enter the haven and step into line, awaiting my overly happy barista. Can I just cut through this line? In a world where everyone's a winner, it becomes so easy to lose track of what purpose you wish to fulfill. Our time here is so minuscule, people lose track of the meaning of life. I don’t blame them really. Life tends to have this menacingly beautiful allure that pulls us into a hole of self-importance. The second we lose focus of our purpose we get sucked into the hole. You know, the very place we satirically mock. The place where valley girls gossip about the one who adopted ten children from like 3 continents or where jersey boys sport their Vineyard Vines. (Well, those people more like marched into the hole.) Don't give me wrong, sometimes I slip into it myself.
How hard is it to find purpose? To block out the white static noise? To be fulfilled? All it takes is a little bit of concentration. And that’s the thing. No one wants to work hard anymore. We have children hooked on Ritalin and Adderall so that they might win a scholarship to Harvard Med and take selfies with people with huge bank accounts. Then we scream at them to relax, focus, pay attention. It’s not them. It’s the hole. It’s filled with a whole lot of emptiness. It’s the metal binkies we call cellular phones that are attached to us like glue. It’s social media. It’s the fast-paced internet. It’s overstimulation of the brain to the point where the person becomes robotic.
A true runner runs because it’s his purpose. He found meaning in beating his record, in challenging his muscles, in the sweat that puddles in front of his feet when he bends down to tie his sneakers. My dear friend Kirani James started running because of this very reason. An artist creates for this reason. It fills him up in ways that a quick Starbucks run or a promising picture upload cannot.
True initial drive, or what magazine articles like to call “passion”, is being pushed to the side. Nothing is stimulating anymore. Have you recently tuned into the depression inducing playlist aka your local radio station? It’s quite sickening to see beautiful artists, some of whom I grew up with from school, become so engulfed into the hole that their work no longer has that “thing”. That sense that there was an initial drive. Everything on the radio seems forced. Forced emotions with intentions to draw in a crowd. Forced fame with the intentions of making millions.
Fulfillment. It does not equal fame. It definitely does not equal social media validation. I met Lexi at the Starbucks on the curb by West 34th and Broadway. It was 2:30 pm, prime time for that cafe au lait and a quick bite. We had on the same shoes and shared a laugh at the coincidence. She admitted to me that although she just got 52 likes on her Instagrammed selfie before leaving her apartment, she was nervous and could not stop shaking in the shoes. “The chunky heel really is a godsend” I offered, trying to create some comic relief. I looked at her. She could not have been more than 23 years old. She explained that her Tinder date was late and it was making her second guess herself. She showed me his picture. She explained why he was a real win. She blushed as she spoke about the guy. She had already planned their future dinner dates, selfies to show her friends -- to rack up some more likes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she Pinterested her outfit of the day. I smiled and nodded. I wanted to tell her to ditch the date. To go out and do something that made her feel satisfied for fully developing herself as a person with real character. I wanted to tell her to delete her Instagram and uninstall her Tinder app. I smiled and nodded.
“A Verdi four-shot, nonfat latte with regular foam for Jolene!” yelled my plucky barista. I win. I paid for my cup of self-importance and left.
