Good morning. We love it when people cancel plans, but the cost may be steeper than we realize.
Following throughI can’t remember when it started, but over the past several years, it’s become a common comedic refrain among busy people of my acquaintance to declare how much they love it when someone cancels plans. What a gift, a last-minute reprieve! One moment you thought you were going to a movie and dinner after work, the next you have a totally unscheduled evening with which to do whatever you’d like. Get in your jammies early and watch TV? Order in? The night’s your playground! The plans you made eagerly, once canceled, reveal themselves to have been a distasteful obligation on par with returning a router to the cable company. An old John Mulaney clip puts it plainly: “Percentagewise, it is 100 percent easier not to do things than to do them. And so much fun not to do them!” he says. “Especially when you were supposed to do them.” I used to cancel passively, letting the day grow late without confirming an evening’s plans so that their certainty grew hazy. Then I or my friend would send that text saying, “Hey, are we on for tonight? No worries if you’re not up for it,” handing the other the privilege of canceling without guilt. The result was the same: an unexpectedly unscheduled night, an obligation removed. Technology makes backing out frictionless. And that, I think, is what’s made me reconsider my position. The ease with which we can back out via text renders every plan a phantom. It makes it possible, whether we mean it or not, to treat our relationships with a lack of commitment. And, crucially, easy asynchronous communication allows us to be careless with other people’s time. My friend Indrani pointed out how she bristles when someone cancels plans by saying, “I’m freeing up your evening!” as if assuming she had other options when she was truly looking forward to seeing them. Maybe it’s the coming winter and its promise of more nights at home, or the research I did about loneliness for a recent story, but I’ve been cherishing and looking forward to the plans I’ve made. I’ve enjoyed looking at the month’s calendar and seeing a night at the theater with an old friend, a drink date I scheduled months ago for “when things get a little less crazy,” even though things aren’t any less crazy. And I’ve gotten a little pickier about what I say yes to, trying to forecast my energy levels when I’m agreeing to attend an 8:30 p.m. breathwork workshop on that Wednesday in November, asking myself if I really want to do the thing before I consent. Brad Stulberg wrote a lovely guest essay for Times Opinion a couple of years ago about the importance of showing up, even if it’s a drag. The ultimate goal in keeping plans, he says, is creating community — a necessary component, we’re reminded over and over, to happiness and longevity. This may involve giving up some control of our time in the short term in the interest of giving our lives meaning in the long run. We chafe at relationships that feel like obligations, but Stulberg sees obligations as “a mutual contract of responsibility” in the service of our larger goals for our lives. “If we commit to certain people and activities, if we feel an obligation to show up for them, then it’s likely that we will, indeed, show up,” he writes. “And showing up repeatedly is what creates community.” When I asked friends about their feelings about canceling plans, they all said something about wanting to be people who show up, that this was important to their self-conception. We want community, to cultivate our relationships, but we also want to cultivate a character that we and others like and trust. Making plans and then actually showing up, even if we’re spent or cranky, is a simple way of acting with integrity. There’s so much that’s unsteady in the world, so much that feels inconstant. Being a dependable presence, keeping our word and our plans, is a small but indisputable way of resisting that.
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