It was also much easier to lose myself in the aspirational imagery of someone else’s flawless feed than it was to plan out a life of my own.
I swiped up slowly, studying each snapshot. A woman in a bikini doing yoga in a field of flowers. A close-up of an expertly executed smoky eye. A plate of food. A city skyline. A disembodied pair of legs artfully positioned beside a romance novel and a steaming cup of tea.
Then, gold words stamped on a plain pink background: No Excuses.
Instantly, I thought of Andrea T. and her T-shirt, Professor Trammel and his total lack of recognition when he saw my face. The worst parts of my day came flooding back to me at the sight of these two little words.
The image belonged to an account by the name of @demidipalma. It was a sponsored post, probably targeting me because of my most recent, desperate Google search, because the caption was eerily relevant.
Have you been struggling to make ends meet? Do you need to make a change in your life, but don’t know where to start? Are you convinced everyone else has it all figured out except for you?
Well, I’ve got news for you, sweetie: if you’re broke, lost, and miserable, THAT’S ON YOU.
You are not a victim of circumstance. The power to succeed is in your hands. And you are UTTERLY and ENTIRELY in control of the trajectory of your life. All you have to do is STOP MAKING EXCUSES for your failures.
It’s time to start #SLAYING your days, #DOMINATING your desires, and #MANIFESTING your dreams into a reality.
Demi DiPalma can help you #EVOLVE.
#noexcuses
#aspirationalactionplan
Intrigued, I tapped Learn More and was directed to Demi DiPalma’s website. The home page featured a photo of her smiling beatifically, her smooth, pale skin practically glowing. From her appearance, you’d have thought she lived a completely stress-free, blissed-out life, but she was clearly an extremely busy woman—and kind of a big deal. Not only was she a “lifestyle guru” and bestselling author, but she had her own YouTube channel called Aspire Higher. According to her “Praise” page, she’d been described by the Huffington Post as “Goop meets The Secret, for the Instagram generation,” and had been a featured guest on Oprah’s podcast, SuperSoul Conversations.
She also offered a whole slew of products and services listed under her “Shop” link: online courses, immersive retreats, books and planners, and one-on-one coaching sessions. She even had her own apparel line, including Andrea T.’s No Excuses T-shirt, and a rose gold bar necklace that said Choose Happy.
So that’s where my sister got that saying from.
Look, I wasn’t completely cynical. There was a big part of me that wanted to believe happiness was a choice. But a bigger, more rational part of me knew bad feelings weren’t optional. Sadness, disappointment, anger—they showed up unannounced, barged their way in, and often overstayed their welcome.
Still, it was a tempting idea, wasn’t it? That you could create a happy life simply by wishing it into existence.
Whatever. The only thing I needed to wish into existence right about now was an extra two hundred dollars. So I shut down Instagram and pulled up a website called SurveyAllDay. According to one listicle, I could earn up to twelve bucks an hour on this site answering simple questions about movies and politicians. If I buckled down, I figured maybe I could make enough to cover both my rent and the cost of my car repairs.
Unfortunately, I thought wrong.
Chapter 4
Fourteen dollars and sixty-three cents.
That’s how much I made after five continuous hours of completing online surveys.
It certainly wasn’t rocket science. All I had to do was tap and swipe through a series of straightforward questions.
Are you over eighteen? Yes.
What’s your marital status? Single.
What’s the highest level of education you’ve completed? Some college.
What’s your annual salary? Prefer not to answer.
Each question was a reminder of how little I’d accomplished in my twenty-five years, but I tried not to think about that. I simply focused on my endgame of tapping and swiping for dollars. I didn’t pay any attention to how much I was earning, either. All I did was tap, tap, tap, swipe. For five hours straight.
At around one in the morning, my wrist cramped up and my fingertips started to go numb, so I figured it was time to call it a night. My plan was to catch a few z’s, then wake up bright and early to tap, tap, swipe all day.
Just before I turned off my phone, though, I opened my SurveyAllDay Earnings Report to see that paltry dollar amount, and suddenly realized no amount of tapping and swiping would help me pay my rent on time. To add insult to injury, I couldn’t even transfer that fourteen dollars and sixty-three cents to my PayPal account for a full seven days. So I’d just wasted five hours of my life. Which, I supposed, was par for the course, but it didn’t make it any less infuriating.
I closed my eyes, resolving that tomorrow I’d find something of value to sell on eBay. Or better yet on Craigslist, since in-person sales would get me cash in hand right away. In the meantime, I’d start brainstorming ideas for a lucrative ebook. Maybe an inverse self-help guide on how not to live your life titled, From Dropout to Delivery Girl: A Cautionary Tale.
With my mind racing, I fired up a nature sounds app to help drown out the chatter in my brain. Scrolling right past the Exotic Rainforest track (too reminiscent of Rob), I settled on the Stream of Serenity and pressed Play. I closed my eyes, willing myself to envision a tranquil woodland, with soft beams of sunlight shining through the branches of lush, green trees and tiny, adorable creatures scampering underfoot. It took some effort, but eventually, I replaced my frantic thoughts with soothing fantasies and fell asleep to the gentle burble of water gliding over smooth stones.
Eight hours later, I awoke to the grinding screech of rusty gears echoing through the floor. This was nothing to be concerned about; it was merely the garage door opening beneath my apartment. One of the legal tenants stored their car in there, so I was acutely aware of their comings and goings. Some grease on the hinges of the door would probably make it a lot less noisy, but again, I didn’t like to complain.
I was glad to be up, anyway. I needed time to concoct a fund-raising plan.
But first, coffee.
With bleary eyes, I rolled out of bed and crossed the room to my kitchenette, which was sparse, but serviceable. There was a small sink, a microwave, a minifridge, and a narrow countertop on which I’d placed a toaster and a single-cup coffee maker. From the cabinet above my head, I grabbed a canister of Folgers, but when I popped off the top, I discovered it was tragically empty. I’d meant to pick some up on my way home from work last night. Obviously, that plan got derailed.
The grocery store was a twenty-minute walk from home, but I needed caffeine immediately, if not sooner. Fortunately, my BFF Mari was the head barista at The Bean House, a cozy little coffee shop just two blocks away. They served all sorts of costly, frothy espresso drinks, but their drip coffee was reasonably priced, and Mari usually hooked me up with a free cup, anyway. So I threw on my least dirty pair of joggers and an oversize T-shirt, then grabbed a protein bar from the cabinet for a quick breakfast to go.