Dear Myself c. 2030,

How are things? By now you have probably gotten over your aversion to anything that feels like settling down. You’re probably married and have children and are living in a home somewhere in the US and not gallivanting about the globe like you used to think you always would. No judgment here — things change, I accept that. As long as these developments make you happy, all is well. If it doesn’t, then you should probably do something about that instead of reading old blog posts and reminiscing like a pathetic asshole, but that is not why I am writing you.

I am writing because I have come in contact with a great many women around your age this past year, in different capacities, and I have some requests to make of you, should you happen to know a girl in her early 20s through work or the gym or something. Mostly work or the gym, but I don’t really know what kinds of things you’re up to off in the future.

If you are having conversations with this hypothetical girl, it would be best to seek some sort of common ground — like the employment space you share or TV shows or something generic. This girl probably does not want to hear about your endless parenting struggles. I don’t want to say that she doesn’t give a shit, but, well she probably doesn’t. More importantly, if she is the only single unmarried person in your place of work, it is a fair bet that these conversations dominate all non-work time. She will have to accept that in conversations where several people are involved, #parentingproblems are going to be central to the conversation. However, there is just no need to have one-on-one conversations on this subject with her. There are plenty of other people to bore to tears share these struggles with. I mean, really, WHY?

Perhaps, though, you will be among the few she counts as friends and she’ll actually kindofsortofreally like your kids. Maybe you will be one the exceptions to this rule. But unless she’s asking you questions about these kids, you’re probably not. This doesn’t mean you’re not lovely, it just means that if she hears one more conversation about how to relate to your teenage children or how you’ll make the time to bake shit and get the kiddos to soccer practice, she might lose her fucking mind.

But this is only a small matter of concern. I mostly want to write to you on behalf of any early-twenty-somethings you encounter at the gym. Maybe these fictional future people spend a ridiculous amount of time at the gym because they value fitness and not because it has become a critical part of maintaining their sanity while they spend a conflicted year living in their parents’ basement wondering what the hell happened to get them to that place. Maybe, but for the sake of those who need their one-to-two hours there for their rapidly disintegrating morale and self-image, let’s err on the side of caution, shall we?

Take yourself back, for a moment, to being 22-or-23 and feeling this desperate need to drown out the noise of miscellaneous voices in your life by working yourself into a ridiculous sweat until everything hurt. REMEMBER THAT PERSON. This person did not view the gym as a social activity. As far as this person was concerned, if she did not leave the gym drenched in sweat, she had done something wrong.

The fact that you may attend a fun and ridiculous cardio dance class with this girl does not mean that she wants to get all buddy-buddy while she is on the elliptical panting and wishing she would just die and feeling vaguely convinced that doing this forever might actually be part of what hell is like (sidebar: Not sure if you’ve stopped doing this at your age, but these days I tend to liken all things I dislike to potential features of my imaginary version of hell. I’m not a religious person, but the horrors of my #firstworldhell are much more tangible and would be far more persuasive in encouraging me to be a better person than any of the fire and brimstone bit)

Back to passive aggressively whining about gym ladies through my nonsensical letter to a future version of myself unlikely to read it: If all of the elliptical machines but the one this girl is on are open, please do not get on the one adjacent to her and keep looking at her and trying to start conversations. If she is sweating balls and in focused mode, she probably doesn’t want to chat. WHO WANTS TO HAVE A CONVERSATION WHEN THEY LOOK LIKE THAT AND CAN’T REALLY BREATHE? WHO?

She probably just wants to watch the illuminated numbers of judgment on the machine and listen to her iPod and maybe mentally sing along to the songs on her gym playlist and runfastforhermother and tell the world that “Bitch, I’m a monster.” Or perhaps be grateful that she’s got #99whitegirlproblems, but a bitch ain’t one. Regardless, she probably doesn’t want to talk to you.

Also, for the love of rainbows and unicorns and puppies, please don’t turn on Fox News. She might make it a point to change the channel before she gets on the machine and just because she says, “No, I’m not watching this,” doesn’t mean that she wants you to make her gouge her own eyes out because she’s in enough pain as it is.

Please don’t be offended or angry with this hypothetical girl because if she’s real, she didn’t actually write you this letter. Also, while I have said lots of angry things, the real point is that you should just let her be. Or talk to her about some stupid TV show. But mostly just leave her alone.

Or really, ask yourself why you’re even reading this. Don’t you have better things to do, in/around 2030? I really hope so.

With snarktastic love,
Me, 2011.