Work is work. We do it because we need to make money, to pay bills, to have a roof over our heads. We do it to imbue our life with a tiny bit of meaning. It’s the thing that makes it so that we can do the stuff we really like, like yoga classes and coffee with friends and fitful bursts of shopping on windy Saturdays. It is energy expended in order for money to be made. The very word sounds trying. The hard consonant is a closed fist. "I can’t meet you for apple cider and donuts," you say, "because I have to work." There are sympathetic sighs; a tacit understanding. The discussion is closed.
I have never been good at not comparing myself to others. It is one of my favorite activities—something I do in between work emails and the lull between episodes of Parenthood loading on Netflix. A simple glance at Twitter or a mindless scroll through Facebook reveals the various successes, personal and professional, of friends, people from high school, old roommates. They are all seemingly doing things. Big things. And here I sit, on my couch, doing smaller things, like watching TV, working and conducting consumer research on duvet covers or televisions. My mind starts to wander. "I should be doing better," a voice says, insistent and grating. "I should be doing more." This voice is the worst. It is career suicide.The correct response to this: "Keep your eyes on your own paper."
Omg, I love Maya Singer's wild, sweeping, manic rant
/ call-to-arms for Style.com about how fashion is about more than clothes and women who declare fashion to be frivolous are carrying water for the patriarchy. I am currently wearing a cotton dress that I'm pretty sure is a nightgown and an Old Navy denim shirt with a hole in the elbow, but you better believe I am first bumping through that hole.