And then I felt as though, for the first time, I could finally stop. I had spent my whole life running toward something. Now I walked nowhere. Slowly. Like I’d never walked before.
Outside it was quiet, and I could finally breathe. The cold air was sharp in my burning lungs. I’d only made it to the middle of the lawn, but it was far enough to feel like I’d escaped. I turned to look at the house, the large dining room window like a movie screen displaying the scene of my family within—everyone clustered around Will, comforting him, even while their eyes gleamed with the thrill of witnessing Family Drama.
Thanks to the light inside the house and the darkness out here, I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. It didn’t feel so different from how I’d felt my whole life. Apart. Distant.
It stung that no one bothered to check on me, but it wasn’t unexpected. Why would they comfort me? I was the one who hadlost her job and ruined a proposal. Will represented everything they valued. Success ran thicker than blood, I supposed.
I turned my back on them, accepting my place. Every family had a screwup.
I wasn’t special. I wasn’t a hero. I was some random nameless peasant with delusions of grandeur, wearing underwear outside my pants and a bath towel as a cape. A peasant who picked up the Chosen One’s sword and waved it about was only ever a fool.
I looked up at the stars, realizing I’d sort of forgotten they were up there. Earth was still turning, despite the fact some random girl named Courtney lost her job and had a bad day.
It all suddenly felt so stupid. My career had been utterly meaningless yet had felt like the most important thing in the world.
Budget cuts.That was what my boss had told me when she called me into her office. I’d tried to do everything right. I’d worn my Professional Courtney cape. I’d gottenulcersfor that job, and yet I’d still fallen short.
Really, though, I’d only been chasing after success because I had no goals of my own other than to do something that people valued, that would make people valueme. My life had felt like a lie because it was. I’d donned capes to be loved, and so the capes were the only things that were loved. No one knew the real me, not even me. I’d tried so hard to be everything for everyone that I’d become no one.
I turned in the yard, crossing my bare arms against the chill. An abandoned tricycle one of my nieces had been playing with earlier sat in the driveway, lit by a house sconce. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ridden a bike for fun, cardio be damned. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d doneanythingfor fun.
The average adult spent one-third of their life at work and one-third of their life sleeping. That left you with only one-third of your life left. I’d been spending that third eating quinoa and being stressed and having ulcers treated.
In a burst of resolve, I walked over and got on the tricycle, my knees nearly touching my chest. The wheels squeaked as I pushed my foot against the pedal.
What was the point of trying to meet the conditions of everyone’s “unconditional” love when the result was superficial affection?
I could give up. Iwouldgive up. This would be the last time I’d ever have to feel this way. If I stopped trying, I’d stop failing. Instead of living a miserable lie, I’d find small happiness in a quiet life where I belonged.
I went a little breathless, thinking of the possibilities. If I reclaimed that third of my life I’d spent feeling miserable, I could start caring about the tiny things that used to make me happy that I’d started taking for granted. I could do all the things I told myself I would do “one day” and then never got around to. I could dye my hair a weird color or get a piercing. I could bartend or bungee jump.
I yanked the handlebars toward the street and pumped my legs. Cold air lifted my hair off my neck as I peeled out of the driveway, going up on two wheels for a second before slamming back down as I straightened out. Legs burning, I pedaled, squeaking my way down the street. I didn’t know where I was going, and I didn’t care. Without a conventional, stifling Happily Ever After looming in front of me, my future was suddenly bright and endless.
Life was too serious to take seriously. I wanted to care deeply about insignificant things, like ice cream flavors and favorite colors and whether I’d rather fight a horse-sized duck or one hundred duck-sized horses. Surely, Will would understand.
CHAPTER 2INWHICHI RETIREFROMTHECHILDHERORESERVE
COURTNEY
Will did not understand. Will did not understand at all.
The next few months of my life looked like a Disney movie played in reverse. I lost my prince (Will), I left the castle (Will’s swanky apartment), and got an un-makeover—which consisted of me transforming into a Boomer’s nightmare, to make myself look as un-hirable as possible, in case I ever got tempted to go back to the corporate world.
Sporting freshly box-dyed blue hair and a slightly infected lip ring, I moved to a cheap duplex in a no-name town in Ohio and picked up a dead-end job at a home improvement store, vowing to live my new, insignificant life with one simple goal: have no goals.
Being good enough would never make mebeenough, so I lowered the bar for my whole life. No more dreams or aspirations, and especially no more relationships. People always wanted those they cared about to succeed, and I’d only let down anyone I dated the way I did Will.
My only personal fulfillment came from volunteering at an animal shelter on weekends. Dogs, I decided, were the only creatures in existence who knew what unconditional love was.
“Who the hell pays fifty dollars for a doorknob?” I muttered to myself, placing the item on the shelf I was stocking. Over the intercom, “Santa Baby” played for the seventh time today.
It was only my first week here, and while I was still happy with my decision overall, I hadn’t accounted for just how lonely I’d be.
I was content merely existing, which, for some reason, made a lot of people discontent. Everyone, even my family, disassociated from me, as though mediocrity were contagious. Apparently, phrases likeit’s the little thingswere reserved to be displayed on plaques in million-dollar homes like trophies, as though contentment itself were something you had to earn. Because if you truly were happy withlittle things, you were unambitious, and if you weren’t ambitious, then you must be lazy. Worthless.
“You’re deliberately making your life worse. How can I support you through that?” Will had said when I told him I was done chasing material success. “All I want is for you to succeed.”
To everyone else, Will’s concern sounded valid. My family praised him for worrying over my “obvious cry for help.” But I knew Will better than any of them, knew how much he clung to that future we’d imagined together, the one with country clubs and RVs. Unless I continued to max out my retirement account and kept pretending to like tennis, I’d never fit into his “wife” box, and he’d never let me live outside of it. He didn’t care that I was happy for the first time. He only cared about what was best forhim.
