Laugh All the Way to Hell

Monday, I sat in a restaurant at 10pm shelling out $45 for a piece of toast. At my friend’s suggestion I read the menu, saw the price, and snorted. The sell: fleeting seasonality, baby! Fluffy, buttered bread, morel mushrooms, herbs, and a formidable amount of garlic. We ordered it. We had to— maybe, we never could again. Maybe, we were insane. I hate to report it was one of the better dishes I’ve eaten in recent memory.

When the toast landed on our table, I sensed instant disappointment. $45?!?!! But instead, a core memory carved itself into my mental ledger of best things I’ve ever tasted. I’ll recall it for years: the chaotic presentation, herbs scattered; the tiny, crowed restaurant with guests in bistro chairs practically sitting on top of each other; the bottle of Sylvain Pataille in small, thick wine glasses downed with friends. The funny thing about core memories is they’re unpredictable. A life affirming moment happens as randomly as a forgettable one, over anything. In this case, toast. The decision was a coin flip: on one side, the sting of regret— on the other, a question mark that might punctuate greatness? Similarly, not ordering may have left us wondering what, exactly, we missed.

Melancholy

Wednesday, looking out the train on my commute, my thoughts wandered to decisions over the years— starting small (recent expensive meals), and eventually growing large (career, marriage, property). A steep escalation, but this is how my mind works looking out train windows. I thought about the infinite possibilities contained in each, and the finality of how they played out. Flipped coins accumulating on a table, bets won and lost, wonder gone — now gathering dust, not to be turned again. It is painful to consider what might have been by calling differently. It is hard to get older.

In a recent interview, Michelle Zauner, of Japanese Breakfast, touches on aging in a relatable way:

"There's a kind of melancholy in looking out at these unlived lives. But it's not a violent longing, it's just kind of a melancholic acceptance."

She experiences this in small moments: passing towns she will never visit. Or realizing choosing a career in music means never “moving to Spain and becoming a sommelier.” Even if her desire for these other lives is small, she still mourns them.

“I think especially after my mother passed away, I've felt like I've just been running through life trying to do everything I can because I'm so much more aware of how short it is.”

A knife to the stomach— nothing like grief, and death, to beg the question, How Best To Live?

Regret, Chaos, Disco

Thursday, I saw Good Will Hunting for the first time at age 32. I know. I watched Robin Williams’ monologue in awe. Clearly shaken by his patient, Will’s, comments on his painting, and his dead wife: "You're just a kid, you don't have the faintest idea what you're talkin' about.”

The scene explores how lived experience shapes perspective. It’s what separates Williams’ character, Sean, from the much younger character, Will.

Time passing is exclusionary on multiple levels: it truncates futures once hopefully traced out, and creates distance between oneself and others yet to experience connection and loss of the same magnitude. Williams goes on to reference formative things like art, war, and love. All are obviously heavier experiences than my expensive toast. But here, the toast is a stand-in. Everything, after all, is a coin flip. Big or small: pleasure, heads, regret, tails.

As time passes, I think: where does possibility go? The “what ifs” of different lives are more enticing in the future tense. Reading the end of a book first often ruins the middle. Years become etched in concrete. Certain choices encouraged from the start, but no roadmap given for the aftermath when they don’t work out favorably.

Possibility doesn’t disappear though— as years elapse, it transforms. Days still lie in wait.

I’ve acquired the habit of Winging It, in a way that causes normal folks’ eyebrows to raise.

I am allergic to over-planning. Days, trips, the future. I love calculated risk. I went to a wedding in Europe without a dress, and without a return ticket to my connecting flight. It worked out. My weekends are full of, “I’ll see where the day takes me.” I’m not saying this is The Best Way to Live— in fact, it has a way of Raising One’s Blood Pressure that creates cause for concern. But, allowing for a certain amount of chaos invites possibility. This works in the present by creating unexpected sparks as days unfold, and, in a way, softens the past (who could have known?).

I’ve had the Modest Mouse song, “Missed the Boat” on repeat.

Well, nothing ever went quite exactly as we planned
…
Oh, and I laugh all the way to Hell

Melancholy and regret can become consuming— their own special ring of hell. But, really, who could have known? Maybe a bit of chaos can be an antidote. Everyone is winging it, and tripping is part of moving forward. Might as well figure out how to laugh along the way.

Modest Mouse again,

Was it ever worth it, was there all that much to gain?
Well, we knew we’d missed the boat and we’d already missed the plane
We didn’t read the invite, we just dance at our own wake

Regret doesn’t have to impose such harsh limitations. Missing the boat isn’t the end. Put a disco ball in hell. Like Russian nesting dolls, individual days still contain multiple lives and possibilities. Dresses are for sale in Europe, and they might be more beautiful there anyway.

What a big fucking racket, huh?

After all is said and done, bury me with that $45 mushroom toast.