Sometimes, you're happy just being you. And you wonder what they're all rushing around for. Who needs 50% share in an organic restaurant, anyway? But then you go home. And you get on your tiny computer. And you wonder why you're not rushing around. What else is there, really?
You decide not to worry about it. Clearly, you cannot be happy yourself if you are trying to be other person's version of happy. Meanwhile they're out there, flirting, making friends, designing exciting new sushi dishes for their organic restaurants, collaboratively writing business and lesson plans, finding popular Micheal Jackson songs to convert and play on the acoustic guitar, and doing unusual things that people will want to ask them about, especially at parties.
They are getting material for the fantastic, revealing novel about life and work that they never intend to write. Your novel is about sitting in front of a screen, and pushing certain keys at certain times. Your novel is about the girl at the lotto stand, who gave you about fifteen hints about how much she liked eating dinner, wink wink, but you just didn't feel like asking her out. After all, it's Sunday, she's got bad hair, and you have work in the morning.
You worry that you might have been one of these people at one time, but that you no longer are capable of the same things as they are. Of being superfunctional. Or worse, that you were never capable of being so vibrant, so excited, so involved. They have a list of things to do. You have only a list of things on your list. Life doesn't always feel like this, but it does sometimes.