I rarely go on Facebook, but I’ll pop on my feed whenever I’m craving good, old-fashioned hometown entertainment. Usually, I discover who’s newly married, with child, or experiencing a life crisis/milestone that must involve 500 of their closest friends. Also, it’s one of the best places on the World Wide Web to properly “stalk” someone — always for important research purposes and for a friend, of course.
During a recent check-in, the algorithm blessed me with a post from the page Dull Women’s Club (Original). I was immediately intrigued, finding the whole concept to be hilarious, ironic or not. I can only describe it as a Boomer- and Gen X-coded internet haven where women can unapologetically celebrate the mundanity of everyday life. The page was created in December 2023 as a joke and already has 1 million members.
After a few scrolls, I realized this community is attempting to embrace “the slow life,” or an existence that focuses on the here and now, just like myself and other Zillenial cusps. They just have a slightly different vocabulary and aesthetic for it.
The concept of a slow life has definitely been around for a while. I’ve especially noticed it trending online in recent years, revolutionized by modern girlies and discussed in holistic health publications. Outside of this demographic, it seems to be overwhelmingly coveted by anyone immersed in the post-pandemic American work force, whether they know it or not.
Clearly, the desire to stop and enjoy the present moment while also sharing that moment with others is not unique. There’s a strong, mutual yearning to be like, “Hey look, you flesh machines, life can really be this easy AND fulfilling.” Surprisingly, though, I think the DWC successfully and unexpectedly captures a crucial trifecta of the slow life younger crowds seem to overall be missing: the unedited, the boring, and the wholesome.
As I’m writing this, the latest post, shared 23 minutes ago by Lynda, says, “I love dipping into a brand new jar of peanut butter. Who’s with me on this?” It has 55 reactions and 16 comments. “Crunchy!” “Love me some fresh Jiff!” Below it: a portrait of Tania’s pet salt water crocodile, Bubbles; Josephine’s neighborhood flowers; JoAnna’s cross-stitch blanket for her 8-month-old grandson; Sandy’s backlit kitchen selfie featuring a hair turban and cat-patterned PJs, captioned, “I’m perfect for this group!”
I don’t want to make this an “us versus them,” “older versus younger” thing between the Dulls and the Slow Lifers. But there are differences in approaches, and it’s not just tech savviness. To be fair, both productivity culture and internet culture are more rampant than ever, blurring the lines between work, recreation, and rest for twenty- and thirty-somethings. Sometimes, all there really is to do in the slow life camp is fantasize and resist, often simultaneously.
A slow life is portrayed on social media like a dream: farmers market trips, saturated produce and fresh bread, candlelit dinner parties, sundresses and hillsides, wrinkled white bed linens beneath hinged windows, curtains waving from the salty sea air down yonder. It’s reading paperback novels written by women with deep thoughts and being a woman who thinks deeply. It’s wandering around art-adorned cities and sipping reasonably priced drinks out of tiny cups. It’s captured by grainy film and shared in reels and framed on your kitchen wall. It’s taking a risk to chase after true happiness and purpose; it’s an act of rebellion against a society that says fast is the only way.
I see it in memes of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs with “create art” and “make delicious meals” written in as peak self-fulfillment. My Instagram explore page has been overpopulated with “regular after 6 pm activities” slides that feature the most bare minimum yet deeply relatable/romanticized/dramatized pastimes. And I can’t seem to get away from the minimalistic “dreaming of a slow life” print that’s become a symbol for “little luxuries.”
A slow life feels aspirational because the competing desire to get out there in the world and do everything makes it seem impossible to fully achieve. No matter where we fall on the introvert-extrovert spectrum, there’s always the societal whisper of “go, go, go,” and it lays out two options: protest or follow.
Western survival is intertwined with very specific images of success; the grind starts and continues to demand fuel. We enthusiastically and repeatedly use tuition, time, and energy as currency to secure ourselves spots in an unpromised future. People work for all sorts of necessary reasons beyond just staying afloat — personal purpose, financial freedom, greater change — but it seems like speeding to the top of the ladder always leaves the climber looking around, suddenly with a broader perspective, wondering where to go next. We must “make ends meet,” and even with established bases of cushiness, we’re still expected to sacrifice the present moment for the bigger picture. And we do.
I’ve felt caught between the extremes of living comfortably and taking risks which has done nothing but give both too much power over my decision-making. I tell myself if I choose one, then I can’t have the other. And I know that’s not true, just a result of choice-paralysis and a twisted perception of how much time I actually have. It’s like Sylvia Plath’s classic fig tree dilemma — all of the options are right in front of me, but they’re bound to fall and expire eventually.
I think it’s possible to have a rich, busy, social, relaxing, meaningful, and simple life that’s healthily split between days and months, destinations and companions. I guess the idea of “living the dream” suddenly becomes more precious when impermanence and imperfection are seen as parts of the equation. Plus, what’s “slow” and “fast” are relative to where, how, and when we live anyway. If we can look back and say, “Aw, that was such a good day,” that seems like a win no matter what happened. As Walt Whitman reflects in Song of Myself:
My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,
I skirt sierras, my palms over continents,
I am afoot with my vision.
. . .
Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole forenoon, flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass,
Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn’d up to the clouds, or down a lane or along the beach,
My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the middle
(Sweet snippets of life like this always feel full to me.)
More and more, though, I see life balance, a big underlying goal for why we do the things we do, as a product of being present. As annoying of a solution “be intentional” is to any complicated problem, it works for a reason. If I went backpacking off the grid in South America or embarked on a multi-destination European tour, I’d still need to return to home at some point. I know the gratification and the chase of new experiences are always going to feel more exciting than what’s sitting in front of me if left unchecked. I’m always going to be stuck with myself. As the saying goes, wherever you go, there you are.
The desire to keep shaking the snow globe and watching the pieces as they swirl and resettle is so real. I think the stillness and the movement are both important. As Whitman also famously says, “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” We’re all humans trying to figure out how to create lives that feel right.
If this were an advice column, I think a good question to end on would be, “How do I experience more out of life without feeling like I’m escaping my own?” This excerpt from philosopher Albert Camus has been in my head all week, and I think it’s the perfect answer:
So with that, find meaning, breathe, and be — maybe even breathe slowly and be dull.