An Extremely Scientific Study on Why I Am Too Busy to Be a Human

SATIRE I  recently came to the conclusion that my life is a sociological experiment being run by a bored graduate student in heaven. There is no other explanation for the absurdity of my schedule. If my calendar were a person, it would be that exhausted mom in the grocery store, dragging a screaming toddler while clutching a venti iced coffee (extra espresso) and whispering to herself, "Just three more aisles. You can do this."

I used to think time management was about balance. Turns out it is more like spinning plates on fire while people keep handing you more plates and those plates are also babies (because I’m also a newborn photographer). Or fires. Or film projects. Probably all three.

There is this myth floating around campus that I am "high functioning." I do not know who started that rumor, but I want them prosecuted. Every time someone sees me walking quickly with a backpack, a laptop, a tripod, and a coffee, they say things like, "You are so organized" or "You look so put together." Meanwhile, I have not eaten a vegetable since Easter, and  my backpack is  a black hole. If you dropped a tracking device into it, it would never see the light of day again.

People also say, "I do not know how you do it all." I don’t either. The secret is that I do not do it all. I do about 47 percent of things fully, 38 percent halfway, and the rest through a series of strategic nodding and hoping people stop asking questions. I call it “the illusion of competence.” It is performance art. I am basically Banksy, except instead of murals I leave behind unresolved Google Docs and files titled "FINAL FINAL REAL FINAL VERSION." Someone once asked, "How are you so productive?" I stared at them silently like an owl. If I ever write a book on time management, it will just say: Drink coffee, be dramatic, trust fate.

Let me walk you through a day in the life of a normal, healthy college student. Just kidding. Let me walk you through mine.

8 a.m.

Wake up. Actually, I wake up at 6:45 when my alarm goes off, but I do that thing where I tell myself I will only close my eyes for two more minutes. When I open them again, it is 8 a.m.

8:07 a.m.

Arrive at class. Just kidding. I am finding shoes and arguing with myself about whether black-on-black outfits count as effort. I decide it is enough effort. Then, further decide  that sunglasses worn indoors convey power.

9 a.m.

Next class. No one has printed the assignment that was due. Including me. We all make eye contact like a silent pact. If no one mentions it, maybe the assignment never existed. Schrodinger’s homework.

10 a.m.

Check the group chat. There are 93 messages. They are mostly memes and one person asking if we can meet today at 3 p.m. even though we have established multiple times that 3 p.m. is literally the worst time for everyone.

I sip my coffee like a CEO of chaos and type "Yeah, that works," knowing very well it does not.

12 p.m.

Work on my film project. Which means stare at footage, question my life choices, and spend at least 12 minutes arguing with B-roll that refuses to sync. Eventually, I give up and whisper to the footage, "Please be reasonable."

The footage is not reasonable.

1 p.m.

Lunch. Except not really. I eat a granola bar from the bottom of my bag. Technically, this counts as foraging.

2 p.m.

A professor emails me. Something about deadlines. Something about professionalism. I add the email to the mental list titled “I will respond later.” Spoiler: I will not respond later.

3 p.m.

Meetings. We talk about scheduling. For one hour. We accomplish nothing. Someone suggests using a shared calendar. I am the one who suggested using a shared calendar three weeks ago. Everyone agrees, like it is the first time anyone has ever had this revolutionary thought. 

I stare into the void.

5 p.m.

Cradle a newborn while telling parents, "Look at your beautiful miracle of life." Meanwhile, I am quietly dehydrated, emotionally unstable and held together by mascara and adrenaline.

8 p.m.

I decide tonight is the night I get my life together. I say the words "I am going to exercise" out loud as if I'm giving a historic speech. I put on leggings, tie my sneakers and fill my water bottle with the confidence of a woman who has never abandoned a plan before. I even open a workout app. Then I sit on my bed for one second to "check something" and suddenly it is 8:47, I have watched nine video essays about how to fold fitted sheets, and my sneakers are back off. I whisper to myself, "Health is a journey." Then I eat cereal straight from the box.

11 p.m.

Time to post on social media so everyone remembers I exist. I scroll through my camera roll trying to find a photo. Any photo. Instead, I find 286 accidental screenshots and a picture of my elbow. Eventually, I pick something passable and edit it with the precision of a NASA engineer. I write a caption that looks effortless (took 17 drafts). The post goes up. I immediately close the app like I just committed a crime. Five minutes later I reopen it to check who liked it. The cycle continues.

1 a.m.

Finally in my bed. Ignore homework. Ignore emails. Ignore responsibilities. Scroll Pinterest for an hour looking at cottagecore photography setups I will never recreate because I live in New Haven, not a meadow with butterflies.

2 a.m.

Set alarm for 6:45. Tell myself tomorrow I will have my life together.

Repeat forever.

I am not actually a person. I am a concept. A myth. A ghost who appears in different buildings carrying a camera, a coffee and a vision. If I vanish, check the newsroom, the studio, or a hospital where I am aggressively selling newborn portraits.

I thrive in chaos. I complain about chaos. I am chaos.

And honestly, I would not have it any other way.