“When was the last time you got really excited?”
I was in the middle of putting my terrible palate to the test, to see if I had the innate grace to distinguish the difference between Norwegian and Loch Duart salmon. The question caught me completely off-guard; the chunky sashimi quivering delectably between the clutches of my chopsticks almost dropped. A challenge! It shouldn’t have felt like a challenge. Quite naturally, I laughed the kind of laugh preceding a tip-of-the-tongue answer — followed by more hesitation, laughter (nervousness has entered the chat), an even longer hesitation, miscalculated my hand coordination resulting in a disastrous soy sauce flood of the poor salmon that could no longer swim, and finally, shut my mouth upon the realisation no words were ever going to formulate an answer…because I didn’t have one.
I replied with something profound like “Uh, yeah, geez.”
“You can’t think of anything recent?” The disbelief in his tone irked me, but only transiently.
“Uh…” I stuttered, a kind of imminent bewilderment creeping up on me. “Okay. I dunno. Going to university?”
He stared at me and blinked slowly. “But that was more than 2 years ago.”
“…yeah,” I responded, wondering what he could see in my eyes right now — pure, top-of-the-line, scathing military-grade nothingness? So I let out another compensatory laugh, which unfortunately came out more like a shrill bird noise. There was a weird sense of shame, and to top it all off, I was definitely not sophisticated enough to tell the difference between Norwegian and Loch Duart salmon. Sigh.
Many witty comments, endearing conversations and a big bear hug later, that question made me reluctantly ponder. When was the last time I got excited? I’ve had my exciting moments, surely – getting a parcel containing books I ordered from Waterstones, the familiar green ‘n’ gold “Sandwich Sandwich” sign, that comforting Marvel flip-book logo before yet another awesome flick… (oh my goodness Jake Gyllenhaal as Mysterio). But never have I been bursting-at-the-seams, screaming ecstatically across the abyss sort of excited.
Perhaps it’s part of age. After all, only so much is new and fresh anymore. Days are routine; schedules are predictable. I’ve got a sort of preprogrammed response for almost every encounter. How dismal, you must think. I don’t want a dull life. And that’s where most people draw the line and complete a PayPal transaction to go bungee jumping in Australia and start analysing John Keats poems (~a stanza a day~) in order to undergo an emotional makeover, because I wish I was just as excited as that kid who found a dandelion, I wish every time was just as thrilling as the first, if I’m not expressing am I even feeling I’m losing touchwithmyhumanity —-!
Am I sad about the revelation I can’t remember the last time I got brilliantly ecstatic? Do I yearn for that all-or-nothing child mentality?
No, oddly enough.
It’s not a desire, an increasingly conscious effort to maintain oomph and vitality over the years, either — I’m just not an ‘extreme’ person, and just as equally, not a big fan of people who are…how can I say, too much. I’m not against showing emotions, but there is a time and a place. Many times have I read about people wanting to feel, to be in awe, to ~ride~ the wave of emotions — and nobody ever talks about how it’s okay to not have to express to show that you feel. I mean, I once forced myself to scream on a roller coaster ride so the stranger next to me wouldn’t think I was incapable of emotion (undoubtedly the most pathetic thing ever).
Perhaps this is an unpopular perspective, but this is the way I like living: a mathematical constant, a simple average of the minutely-fluctuating data-points, a noise-filtered regression…there’s nothing wrong with a simple shrug and a smile. By no means am I feeling less (those of you close to me know this is definitely not the case) or living a much less exciting life, but I just don’t like immersing myself in high-intensity emotions often — because my goodness it mentally demands a lot, both negative and positive.
Very few of us in this generation have physically demanding jobs; after all, the physical effort we exert in our day-to-day activities doesn’t warrant the fatigue we experience when we flop down on our bed (obviously excluding the likes of sign-spinners and medical residents). As lowly students struggling to remember our Barbie doll answers during college interviews convincing employed fifth years why we will pay to slave away for a piece of paper, it’s the theatrical emotions that wear us down. I’m no expert on neurodiversity, but I am part of this social gang of 8 billion — it’s not just frustration, panic, or hysteria; it’s also elation, euphoria, and delight. Take a look at the physiological arousal evident even in the language used in Western culture: “Yeah, crush that interview!” “Knock it out the park!” “Fight through this!” “Break a leg!” It seems the pathway to success requires you to bring on attack mode with the intensity dialled up to the max (at least, in the Western world).
To not feel is hardly human (for the most case). However, knowing yourself emotionally does not mean being overly emotional, nor is being emotional the same as being passionate. Emotion feels; passion does. At least, if I’m going to get all amped up with stress or excitement, I’m going to allocate my most important natural resource – energy – into something more than just feelings-full-stop. So yeah, I guess I do internalise emotions more, but I am aware there are way more confounding factors at play here. If you’re the kind of person who feels really good because you’re feeling good, and feels really terrible because you you’re feeling terrible, that’s totally fine; in fact, I’m envious of the fact you just feel for the sake of feeling. I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you think there’s something wrong with you for not feeling awful about the fact you don’t holler at the top of your lungs when you reach the summit or you don’t burst into happy tears upon receiving an acceptance letter, trust me — there’s not. Stick to your lofi hip hop vibe; silence isn’t always demure.
Fast-forward a few months. There I am, sitting in the passenger seat, cruising down the highway with the same friend as we listen to Jaymes Young crooning on the radio. There’s a comfortable silence, and then he clears his throat:
“So, Holly – when was the last you got really upset?”
And, sure enough, I didn’t have an answer.