different games

or at least, different objectives

I’m in Pittsburgh, where the buildings are brick, the sports are beloved, and the median home price is $239,500. We arrived to find a brimming blue-purple-pink-orange sunrise, the sort of spectacular pastoral beauty that seems to reveal itself only on vacation.

On the plane ride over, I finished Matthew Desmond’s Poverty, by America, the kick in the pants I needed to fork over a larger end-of-year donation than I planned. Did you know that the federal poverty level is $15,060 for an individual, and that 37.9 million Americans live beneath it? I didn’t, and I’m humbled to now know.

I’ve spent a good portion of this past season feeling distant from other Americans — in part because of the election, in part because of the vanity of small differences — and wishing to close the gap. If Taylor Swift is right and it’s possible to know everything at 18 and nothing at 22, then it makes sense that I believe incorrect things at 25.

There’s a misconception among coastal elites that living in a big city gives you an edge, or is somehow “more real” than living in a small town. Unsurprisingly, that is bullshit. Like all things, inhabiting only one part of a whole means missing out on the rest, and value is subjective. Questions I’ve asked this past week that expose how many fundamentals I’m missing: How does a well work? How do you install drywall? What is it like to drive a truck? Why are water towers high up instead of on the ground? Is there a reason the cats have part of their ears cut off? What happens inside of a septic tank? How do you fly fish? What is the point of Minecraft? What is believing in God like for you?

Last night, I met lots of new people around my age, most of whom were married, parents, homeowners, or all three. I mentioned that those life situations felt alien to me, and someone in the group advised me not to worry because “we’re playing entirely different games.” I thought this was kind and wise.

I’m sympathetic to this idea that we’re playing different games — or at least, the same game but with different objectives. It’s likely that maneuvers that seem nonsensical to me are actually wise under a different set of rules, and that being behind in one game is the advantaged position in another.

I was impressed by how quickly this person realized that he inherited the “build a family, buy a home” directive, and how readily he rose to meet it. In contrast, I have been slow to understand that I have also inherited a directive, slower to understand what it is, and even slower to decide if I want to take it on.

2025 is on the horizon. I am cautiously optimistic it will bring me a meaningful level of clarity. It is strange to have come closer than ever to a set path, and then, having been close enough to inspect its qualities, refuse to walk down it. It is strange that going so far sets you back farther.

This past year of choices, including my passive and unconsidered ones, has uncovered consistency among my revealed preferences. As Carolyn Elliott would say, “Having is evidence of wanting.” Perhaps this — my mewling, my restlessness, my feigned idiocy — is something I want. Perhaps I desire to be unfocused for a while longer. Perhaps this is great fun for me: being a girl, disengaging higher functions, baring myself to whim, leaving room for the possibility of a more arresting feeling.