The Delicate Art of The Picture Imperfect Life

Red light bulbs gave the small apartment that was cluttered with empty bottles and empty people an eerie glow. When paired with the dissonant electronic music, and the fact that pieces of mannequins were strewn about the walls as decoration (I hope), I began to realize that I was not, as I had meticulously planned, having fun.

Which in my mind, at the time, was not okay.

Also, there was a distinct possibility that I had wandered into the latest addition of the Saw franchise and was about to be murdered to bad dubstep. In which case, one of my more ambitious nightmares was about to come true.

When I would venture out to college parties — which was seldom, as my typical Saturday night was staring into the dark depths of the internet as I endeavored to lose all concept of time and space — it was always in an attempt to feel like I was doing what I should be doing.

Which was, in my mind, was the picture perfect combination of getting reasonably drunk, looking good, and above all else, having fun.

After all, one log in to Facebook or Twitter (the social platforms du jour of the ancient times of four years ago) and I’d see countless photos of my friends — but mostly random acquaintances who I didn’t really know nor particularly care about — posing with come-hither duck lips or goofy faces in equal measure. They seemed to glow, literally; their skin possessing an iridescent quality due to the light from the flash and the contrasting formless black mob of people and drinks behind them.

No matter the party’s theme, or the particular type of people that were in attendance, there was one thing I always noticed: everyone seemed so, so happy. Everyone looked like they were having the best time.

Meanwhile, my idea of a wild night was taking a break from studying declensions by watching a YouTube compilation of all of Colin Firth’s intensely broody longing-for-Elizabeth-but-too-much-of-a-dick-to-do-anything-about-it expressions from Pride & Prejudice.

Spoiler alert; the compilation is the entire film because that’s his only expression.

It is also the most beautiful face/facial expression combination that was ever manifested by an actor and should therefore be studied by thespians and scientists alike for all time. But I digress.

And so, in several of my sincerest attempts to feel like a normal, real-life functioning early twenty-something, I would occasionally attend a college party. Sometimes they were, in fact, fun. Though any enjoyment experienced was almost exclusively due to the company.

Most of the time, however, I just never felt right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The most frequent emotion was just a pervasive sense of awkwardness. I was never much of a drinker, and more often than not I was unfamiliar with the crowds that I was in. For the most part, I think the biggest problem was a sense of discontent, of not doing “it” right — but I really had no idea what that even meant.

It wasn’t until I was in what was possibly a serial killer’s apartment, looking around me at this crowd of people all crammed into stickily humid rooms, that I noticed something crucial that unlocked the reason behind my moroseness and unease.

People were having a whole range of experiences at this party. Most of them, for whatever reason at this particular party, were not pleasant.

I was with a friend, and someone came up to her and began drunkenly, and loudly, complaining about someone else who was also at the party. Not only did that make me feel uncomfortable, but it appeared to put my friend in a bad space. She then was spirited off somewhere, and as I was left alone. With no one else to talk to, I took another deeper look at everyone.

Everyone’s emotional range seemed begin at all apathetic attendance, to actively being downright miserable.

That was, until someone starting taking photos.

Even the two girls talking heatedly in the corner, or the boy who was in pain because he had just drunkenly jammed his toe, all perked up, smiles-a-blazing, when they felt the flash come on them.

The pictures from this party, no doubt, would look like everyone was having the time of their lines. Plus, the murder house theme would act as a super hip, underworld type vibe that would make the plebs that weren’t invited totes jelly.

But the party wasn’t cool, it wasn’t fun, in fact, to be perfectly honest it was barely tolerable.

And you know what? That’s perfectly okay. Every party can’t be a banger. Not every night out is fun. Even with the best intentions, a well-planned evening can just never really kick off, and you come home feeling empty.

The reason we feel empty is because our expectations are so high, and that puts pressure on us to enjoy ourselves. But not every moment of our lives is picture perfect enjoyment. In fact, in my experience, it’s more often “meh” or “okay” than anything else.

That’s what makes the good nights, or the good moments, so awesome — because they don’t happen all the time.

By participating in that constant performance “having fun,” whether it be through our Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, and FernFace (a new social media platform that I’m developing that matches you with the most attractive ferns in your area) we just end up making ourselves, and inadvertently others, feel like they’re doing something wrong. Or that they’re lives aren’t good enough, when they are.

The reason I hated going to these parties was because they were a nearly perpetual disappointment. I wasn’t living up to the photo op in my head.

But life isn’t picture perfect. And we need to stop pretending that it is.

It’s okay to not have fun.