We Have Become a Country of I-Curators

But is this obsession with self-selecting choice really the answer?

We seem steeped in a culture of relentless self-evaluation. In our defense, lest we seem completely narcissistic, it is in part a required response to the obscene proliferation of choices.

It is also, in no small part, due to the media’s fear-induced warnings about the dangers and pitfalls of making the wrong decisions for our selves, and (double guilt) our children.

No categories are left untouched.

Are we eating the right amount of kale, having sex often enough, choosing the right balance of activities for our children, finding ways to contribute to our struggling world, stay in shape, relax, be more successful, save for old age …

The list is endless.

It is an all-consuming endeavor.

And at the end? Oh, there is no end.

Except of course for the final one. There is no mountaintop from which you hold up your arms and yell to the world: I made it! I made the right choices and indeed I have arrived! See… my family and I are healthy, happy and financially secure! We did it!

There is no hallelujah chorus. No congratulatory committee. No wreath of roses to be lain upon your head. This kind of hard-won comfort is totally unachievable because every day there are brand new life-impacting choices we need to make.

Like Power Foods and sunscreen vitamins, executive function coaching for ADHD and temporary cryo-freezing for circulation, blood pressure and weight loss. Not to mention organic, fair-trade, grass-fed, affordable protein and produce.

And it may be true that 80% of it is a waste of time.

But 20% could change your life. And the lives of others.

Unfortunately, you don’t get the 20% without considering it all. This, however, is a mammoth time suck and an overwhelming amount of decision-making especially for whosever role it is to curate family initiatives.

Usually, the woman.

What to do…

Swinging on the polarizing pendulum between full-frontal engagement and crumpled in a ball resignation seems very, drama queen.

And yet, with all the options out there, there don’t seem to be many on how to stay engaged and yet disengaged at the same time. This is an ongoing issue for me. The koan of my attempting Zen existence.

To care and not to care.

This is the answer.

The only problem is there are too many caveats.

You can’t not care about your childrens’ education. Can you… Ditto for your husband’s stress level. Right… Or your maternal history of breast cancer… There are certain exceptions to this rule. Aren’t there?

Not to care implies a kind of giving up. A half-hearted resignation. And that feels dismissive and, well, uncaring. To complicate matters, at least in our family, nearly everything is a five-star, level-10, in-need-of-100%-care-at-all-costs, situation.

Hence, life is a caveat.

The not attached method is great for those who can do it without eating a Costco size bag of tortilla chips or doubling up on anxiety meds. But for the rest of us A-type, soul-searching thugs, this is not so much a helpful goal as a demeaning taunt.

However, there is one thing I find incredibly helpful when I am bouncing back and forth between the desire to be curate the bejesus out of our lives and the need to give up and move to the outer reaches of Maine or Mexico.

I think about how all the truly great things in my life found their way to me.

My poppop gave me poetry. My freelance work introduced me to Joe, my love for him brought about out beautiful boys. My commercial work introduced me to the partner on my first album.

My gym class instructor introduced our family to The Whole 30. My boys pre-school introduced me to one of my dearest friends. The MFA program I did introduced me to two more dear friends.

What I love the most has found me.

It has not been a balls-out effort involving endless research and ten thousand phone calls. The boulders I have pushed up hill at midnight in the pouring rain usually end up flattening me and rolling all the way back down.

I usually forget this. And equate amount of pain and suffering with worthwhileness of accomplishment. I forget that when hard work is propelled by desire and love rather than assumed obligation or self-enforced diligence, it feels like play.

It feels un-self-conscious.

And to not think about myself… is a huge relief.

Way easier to just be our selves. To remember what we love most will find us if we aren’t too busy curating every last detail.