Wax Fruit

I sat next to a man on the plane who told me his serendipitous life story. As nice and melodious as that word is, I’ve never liked it. It reminds me of the movie. Which reminds me of Hollywood. Which reminds me that scripted romanticism is different from reality, which makes me doubt that my story will be a series of beautifully orchestrated events filled with fortuitous happenstance. I shook his hand, followed him down the jetway, and waved as we turned in different directions.

That night, I read the depressing Facebook status of a jobless mid-20-something living at home. I felt sad for her. And then for me. Though our circumstances are hardly the same, we share the same fear of never amounting to anything and, worse yet, doing it alone.

The funny thing is—we’re not alone. Almost every mid-20-something I know is suffering from what I’m officially naming Transplantancy Syndrome. Trans-PLAN-tan-cee-sin-drom: the unfortunate side effect of having a solid education, geographical freedom and unlimited possibilities. We have 580+ confirmed friends yet we lie on our backs in the dark and stare at the ceiling, increasingly aware of the silence. And loneliness.

In some psychology class, I read that emotional bonds are fostered by face-to-face contact. Being able to read human expression. Feel empathy. And with face talk/book/chat, you’d think we’d feel closer than ever. But what we see isn’t our friend’s face. It’s a picture of their face. An illusion of closeness. A kind of faux-proximity that is as satisfying as binge eating—elation when it’s in front of you, emptiness when it’s gone.

My poor generation is starving for closeness, and Facebook is a wax fruit.