I wake up today and scroll through my social media feeds which everyone knows you should not do first thing in the morning because it makes you jittery, tense and a bit jealous.
Instead you should write in your journal, meditate, work out, take a cold shower, read some fine literature and follow your morning routine slavishly because it will turn you into a better person, having a better life. I know all this, and occasionally I do some of these things, but often I just want to stare into the void and eat toast.
On my feeds I see beautiful, lean, people in colour coordinated active-wear, drinking green smoothies, stretching and/or lifting huge chunks of iron over their heads in powerful displays of strength and wellbeing.
I wonder about the real lives of these extraordinary people who post photos of their extraordinariness because they are social media influencers and this is their actual job. What do they do on their days off? Do they have days off? Or do they just influence 24/7, even logging perfect sleep patterns for us to aspire to?
They get to you though, after a while. And in that moment I decide I want to be extraordinary too, right after I’ve finished my toast.
You Can Clean Up Your Life in One Minute
I Google “how to be extraordinary” and find a lot of help on offer. One expert has 126 ideas, while others slip examples of their extraordinariness into their listicles. I’m overwhelmed by all this and decide that being joyful, mindful, grateful, peaceful, purposeful and loveable within 24 hours is out of my league.
But then I spot something: happiness guru Gretchen Rubin’s one-minute rule. It says you must to do all things in your path IF you can do them inside one minute (e.g. put three plates in dishwasher, answer an email, file a sheet of paper, pick up shoes). This helps you clean up all the Little Stuff in your world. Ultimately, it will make you more productive, less overwhelmed, more serene.
Enticing, I think. I can do this.
So I go out into the rainy world and there’s a man sleeping on the sidewalk. I drop all the coins in my pocket beside him even though I know it will probably go towards alcohol or drugs: 14 seconds.
I buy takeout coffee: 40 seconds to order, the wait doesn’t count. I get to work and hang up my coat: 6 seconds. I answer two urgent emails: 3 minutes — a fail, strictly speaking, but I give myself a pass.
Then I derail. I see my first client, a bulimic lawyer, then five more. One is depressed, one is upbeat even though he can’t find a job and one’s husband has just left her for someone young and not even thin. After lunch a funny young woman who believes she has cancer when she doesn’t makes me laugh a little too much. Then a young man who doesn’t like people much and thinks people don’t like him — but I like him. I’ve known him for years and I worry he will kill himself because he nearly has once or twice and occasionally mentions trying again.
Then I come home, pour a big glass of wine and lie on the couch trying to think about happy things but the TV news comes on and tells me bad things have happened. Good things will have happened too but they don’t make the cut tonight, or many nights, and so I try to watch Netflix but my wi-fi keeps dropping so I eat some chocolate: 10 seconds. I cook dinner. I text my kids. I chat to my husband who is a good man and rises up to extraordinary occasionally I suppose, although he often doesn’t hear what I’m saying because his head is full of golf shots.
And I reflect.
Was this a good enough day?
I ate some food, saw some people, laughed a few times, did some work and came home bone tired. And all the time I am roaring towards the end of my life, maybe influencing a few people but not being extraordinary at all. Still, I ask: did I make a difference today, did I spend it with the people that matter, did I do myself justice, did I MAKE THIS DAY COUNT? Then I abandon it as a ridiculously deep question that will take more than one minute to answer.
I go to the fridge and another glass of wine winks at me. “I could drink you in less than a minute,” I think defiantly. “Don’t make me do this,” I say to the wine — and it doesn’t.
I sit back on the couch and vow to leave Instagram and her revolving cast of influencers alone in the morning. I remind myself that our big job is not to be extraordinary but to show up — for ourselves and for our people. To do what we can with what we’ve got for as long as we can, and that’s it.
Later, I get into bed: 30 seconds. My husband skids hopefully in the door a few minutes later. “You’re too late,” I say, faking deep interest in my book.
But then I soften. “Only if it takes less than one minute,” I say.