My Complicated Relationship With Google Calendar

Written By: Izzy Gavin

Graphic By: Jessye Fan

Sitting at my dorm room desk, my brain swirls into a web of due dates and assignments, snippets of small talk and looming questions. I search for the exit sign, an escape from this labyrinth; no amount of deep breathing or lofi beats could calm the whirlwind collecting everything in its ravaging reach. Faltering through the chaos, I feel the magnetic grip of something in the distance engulf me and pull me from the havoc. A gleaming Google Calendar stands before me, neatly tucking each thought away into color-coded drawers of time, transforming the storm into one time-blocked rainbow. I shackled myself to her, finally free. 

I thank GCal for dictating my every move. The three-note ding at the end of each time block, my compass and my guide. Operating on my own volition is an act of self-destruction. Straying from what GCal asks of me is unthinkable. Ungrateful. Fatal. Breaking our bond would leave me starving, sleep-deprived, suffocating. She is my life support, my source of joy, my calm. The delicate rope that suspends me above the abyss of tumult in my mind.

Each mental breakdown is swiftly assuaged; just as my tears begin to fall, I hear the bell: Crying is reserved for Sundays at 4:15. Silly me!

She reminds me that sleepiness proves unproductive, unless, of course, it is on the schedule. I don’t hunger or thirst; I am dragged to dinner and told to fill my water bottle. I am sustained by a distant authority that espouses convenience and productivity, that keeps emotion at bay and controls my every move.

Google calendar offers a reflection of my life, displayed in one giant to-do list; each experience, each conversation, each accomplishment culminating in a gleaming blue checkmark. I live to cross each box, to feel the momentary satisfaction when my rainbow-colored tyrant loosens its grasp and gives me a pat, so as to say, “well done,” just before serving me another box to fill. I furiously work at each task, racing to an invisible, maybe non-existent finish line, just to avoid the guilt of disappointing her, of leaving boxes incomplete, of surrendering to my own mind.

As I scurry between the millimeters of white emptiness, tiptoeing on the moments GCal allocated elsewhere, I feel a gentle tug slowly lift me from the ground. As I continue to converse, wandering the busy streets, I begin to resist the pull, but it only gets stronger, tightening its gossamer grasp around me with each flinching movement I make. I traverse freely but am utterly paralyzed; each step I take away from the strings that bind me is a step closer to the chaos I once inhabited. Each movement only pulls me apart. My mind drinks in the guilt of a hundred seconds, wasted amid niceties and between breaths. I am entwined in the web of marionette strings I weaved myself.

GCal demonically dangles me in the air as I stare ahead at my fragile, perfectly organized life. Each moment is accounted for, not one lost to laughter or tears. In only a moment I can throw open the drawers GCal so kindly curates for me. My emotions could be spilling around me, like socks strewn across a spotless floor. In a moment, I could tear the string that binds me; I could look up and not see her face. In a moment I could shake off the authority that confines me. But I know that if I do, in a moment, I will still be freedomless.