Comfort is one of those few essential parts of life that every person will, at some point, strive for. The idea of comfort has invaded every domain. It has, with all good intentions, become one of those categorical imperatives to modern-day life. This surely poses the question; has comfort been hierarchically placed above all else? How does one achieve said comfort without relinquishing all those other vital components of a so-called 'successful life'? The thought of the slightest restriction, be it physical, moral, or emotional is one that we as a society can no longer bear, and many of the details which were considered to be a mark of elegance and success some years ago are today condemned for reasons of comfort.
As like the large majority of the female race, my comfort stems from a variety of somewhat predictable sources. I look to my wardrobe; practically the only die-hards to resist the invasion of comfort are shoes, whose forms are still absurdly and absolutely to the contrary of good sense and, as a result, comfort. A dear friend of mine once revealed to me a recent purchase of obscene and, quite frankly, ridiculous shoes, shoes that were never created to be worn. They were works of art, whose only role was that of beauty, to be admired, to give their owner that true sense of not only femininity, but accomplishment. In their creation comfort was, as they say, ousted. This factor speaks volumes; is it a new route that should be discovered? Perhaps the mission of the fashion designs of tomorrow should be to form an alliance between comfort and elegance.
And yet, the more I think about it, the more I see the extensions of comfort. At first glance, there is a purely superficial aspect to it; comfort in a physical sense; comfort of warmth, of good food, of a ludicrous amount of chocolate on yet another Saturday night spent in front of yet more repetitive and predictable reality TV. But when I truly look at it, truly focus on what I crave for comfort, I am forced to evaluate not only myself as a person, but also my morals, my wishes, my reality.
I have recently finished reading the autobiographical book 'Eat, Pray, Love' by one Elizabeth Gilbert. Although in a less extreme sense, I could not help but relate to her, on so many varying levels. Based on a horrendous reaction to a complicated divorce, the book focuses on one woman's strife as she searches for her identity. Throughout the book, she looks to various different stimuli, with one ultimate aim: to find herself. To really and truly be at ease with ones-self. For her, this ease eventually came through philosophical and religious reassurance, but not before travelling the word, intricately exploring food, culture, occupations and men, all in hope of finding a significant gap in society in which she could remain. There was, of course, a happy ending for Ms Gilbert. But should we all have to go to such extremes to enable us to linger in quiet contentment? Or is it possible to just...be. To just be us. Be you...be me? One last question remains; are we comfortable as ourselves, or do we envy those around? Can we learn to walk, not in others', but in our own shoes? Is that, in fact, the definition and confirmation of comfort?
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