Throughout my life, I have nurtured a fascination with what I like to call ‘life aesthetics’: magazines like Sunset and Real Simple, as well as the Pottery Barn catalog. The arrival of Ikea’s annual idea book has prompted me to cancel plans on occasion. There have been times when even the Dixieline Lumber circular or a catalog filled with flowing garments and Buddha-themed decor have satisfied my cravings. And now with Pinterest, I have access to an endless supply of curated inspiration — from floral arrangements to upcycled fashion, deck designs, and pickling recipes.
This obsession has imparted numerous lessons over the years. A recent issue of Sunset magazine advised me that every camping excursion should feature a signature cocktail — ideally one crafted with artisanal bourbon that can only be ordered from a quaint little town in Oregon. Until then, I had naively believed that a simple six-pack of beer, chilled in the river, constituted an acceptable camping drink.
For most of my life, “well-dressed” merely implied that my undergarments were not visible and my shoes were matching. That understanding has evolved. Thanks to Real Simple (the irony is not lost on me), I now realize that my round-toe nude ballet flats actually shorten my legs, necessitating an immediate upgrade to pointy-toed alternatives. The illusion of an extra half-centimeter in leg length has genuinely transformed my life.
And then there are my freckles, which, after turning 40, have been unceremoniously rebranded as “age spots.” Thankfully, a stringent five-step regimen involving a chemistry lab’s worth of ingredients promises to diminish their visibility. It’s likely that without my “age spots,” I would be unrecognizable, but clearly, this matters — hence the four-page spread.
Without this obsession, I would remain blissfully unaware that each electronic device in my home is akin to a waiting Typhoid Mary. After grappling with the disturbing image of a graduate student quantifying the number of “fecal matter” particles released into the air with each toilet flush, I came to realize just how germ-infested we really are. Hence, I resolved to dedicate two hours each week to sanitizing my devices instead of indulging in leisurely pursuits like reading or beach walks.
In moments of weakness, I’ve shown up to picnics with a haphazard assortment of leftovers from my fridge — half a carton of cherry tomatoes, chips, and a half-eaten container of hummus. However, after consulting my life aesthetic resources, I recognized that I should at least attempt to bring pressed vegan banh mi to avoid embarrassing myself. I even considered hauling my portable smoker to recreate a clambake on reclaimed barn wood tables adorned with customized luminaria. Silly me; I simply brought an old beach towel to sit on.
The allure of the glossy photos in these publications is undeniable. I yearn for my life to mirror those images: perfectly arranged throw pillows, the ideal lip shade, and have you tried the new ramen truck yet? In my less rational moments (usually after a second glass of wine), it seems plausible that preparing elaborate meals (like homemade pea and mint ravioli that calls for 13 ingredients yet somehow only takes 30 minutes!) or donning outfits that cost $200 could somehow elevate my life to its intended status. This thought is particularly enticing when my son insists he doesn’t need a shower, despite the unmistakable odor lingering over the bean burritos he devoured (for the third time this week), while I sift through a mountain of back-to-school forms scattered across the dining table that somehow also has Cheerios strewn on the floor, even though I can’t recall the last time I bought any.
Of course, I dream of being in that picturesque scene — a diverse group enjoying smoked duck in a sunlit meadow, sipping drinks infused with grapefruit and rosemary. But it’s all an illusion, isn’t it? A storybook fantasy for adults. Sure, I could curate such a life if I relinquished my job, abandoned my hobbies, and evicted the three mess-making individuals with whom I share my home. However, my job is fulfilling, I treasure my hobbies, and I’m rather fond of those three humans. Striving to recreate the perfection I see on Pinterest during the fleeting moments I have left after tending to what truly matters is utterly exhausting.
Therefore, I’m embarking on a journey to sever ties with this unyielding quest for life improvement. Like a committed 12-stepper or a mindful Buddhist, I’m starting by acknowledging the truth: My obsession with life aesthetics keeps me trapped in a relentless cycle of desire and consumption in pursuit of unattainable perfection, which does not lead to happiness.
Now, I’ll contemplate my next steps — after I finish preparing the fire-roasted poblano sauce for the enchiladas I found on a food blog that promised to impress tonight’s guests.
Baby steps, people. Baby steps.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, the author grapples with her obsession with idealized lifestyles portrayed in magazines and catalogs, which has led her to unrealistic expectations and dissatisfaction. Acknowledging this compulsion, she resolves to break free from the pursuit of unattainable perfection and embrace a more authentic life.
Keyphrase: life aesthetics
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