Uncomfortable

[one]

When I look back on the last ten years of my life, I can only think of one word: comfortable.

I'm not so sure that's a good thing.

I feel like I haven't experienced anything. I haven't pushed myself out of my comfort zone.

I haven't lived through anything exciting or new or worth telling a story about.

Ten years of the same city, the same guy, the same freaking haircut.

I have a box drawn around myself. I stay inside of it. I don't stray. I don't poke my toe over the line to test it out. Who knows? Maybe the line is an electric fence. I never really wanted to find out if I'd get shocked.

It's even weirder because that doesn't even seem like me when I force myself to think about it.

I used to be more fun and funnier—less... boring. I would dye my hair different colors and paint my nails crazy colors. I used to push the edge to see how much I could get away. I used to be the girl who was curious and interested in how much I could change and manipulate the boundaries.

The new me—that was a slow, I-didn't-even-realize-it-was-happening process to turn into what I have become; what I am now. I stare in the mirror sometimes and ponder on life's question—how did I get here?—like I'm some goddamn philosopher. Aristotle would be so proud.

I look at my practical brown hair in a neat bun and my sensible outfit complete with loafers and think, This isn't me.

But the answer to life's question? Honestly, I have no idea.

The only answer I can come up with: I became way too damn comfortable.

It all started sophomore year of high school. My ex-friend Lucy told me boys don't like sarcastic girls who push back. Boys like girls who stay quiet and support them. According to her, that was the reason I'd never had a boyfriend.

In her defense, she knew more about boys than I did. Especially Upper East Side boys. My brother and I were technically trust fund babies, but our trust fund from my grandparents was only enough to send us to our fancy school with the stipulation that it was the only thing it could be used for.

I didn't know the first thing about boys. I didn't know that I was supposed to stand there and look pretty. I wasn't strong or mature enough to realize that what she was saying was utter nonsense.

Whitney, don't laugh so loud. Whitney, don't be so sarcastic. Whitney, don't roll your eyes so hard.

At least, that was nonsense for me. Lucy is now married to a hedge fund manager, has a two-year-old little boy and a baby girl on the way, and I see her and her bleach blonde hair in fancy floor-length dresses in the social section of the newspaper all the time.

Win for Lucy—if that's what she wants. Loss for me—because that's not what I want.

So anyway, point is, I conformed to this nodding, smiling, non-talking head.

Yes, she was kind of right in a way. I did catch a boy's eye after that. Then one day turned into a month turned into a year turned into ten.

I let it go too far. I didn't realize then that it just wasn't the type of boy I wanted to attract.

I suppose all of us do that at some point in our lives. We get complacent and worry that the grass isn't greener. Shaking it up might be the biggest mistake we ever make. It sucks that you can't possibly know until you actually do it.

Nothing will change unless I do something about it—I'm not going to spend another second wasting my time anymore, and I'm not getting any younger. I'm going to find out what's on the other side.