In an age where algorithms constantly guide us toward things we already like, I decided to stop being a control freak, imprisoned by my preferences. It wasn't easy.
My Predictable Life
I drink my coffee from the same Moomin mug every morning and run a tight roster of weekly meals. My Ocado order never varies. On weekends, we buy the same seeded sourdough loaf, do the same chores, and see the same friends. That might sound stultifying, but it comforts me in a chaotic world. Is it a coping mechanism? An expression of my control-freak tendencies? Probably. That's why I was both gripped and horrified by an extract from How Not to Know by Simone Stoltzoff in the Atlantic about Max Hawkins, a software engineer who felt trapped by his optimized life and decided to randomize radically.
The Randomization Experiment
Hawkins built an algorithm for a random ride generator that took him to surprise locations: a hospital, a leather bar, a bowling alley. Then he went further, letting chance decide where he lived, what he wore, and even his tattoos. In choosing randomly, he found freedom. Despite my control-freakery, I felt compelled to give it a go. Being trapped in a prison of your preferences seems almost inevitable in an age where we're algorithmically nudged in predictable directions. If you're anxious, risk-averse, and fussy, life can become small and unsurprising. Could I find freedom in letting random chance prise me from my comfort zone? Profoundly unqualified to build an algorithm, I decided to use dice and lists of options, plus a pound coin, to surrender my day to luck.
A Rough Start
It started badly. The dice dealt me a coffee mug I despise, and a banana with nuts for breakfast. I was instantly tempted to cheat, but what was this experiment about if not submitting to fate? I ate my boring banana. More dice throws left me wearing jeans and a silk shirt, working from the shed. Perched on a gutted, filthy old sofa with my laptop precariously balanced on a tray, I was cold and my back ached, but the birdsong was a bonus.
Lunch and Reading
By lunchtime, I was starving and wired. I tossed a coin for tea versus coffee all morning, and a run of tails left me violently caffeinated. I rolled for lunch options, hoping to go out, but the dice said eggs at home. Thankfully, my hens agreed. The randomly selected reading matter was Steven Benner's Meet the Neighbors, an exploration of the search for life on Mars. I would never have chosen it, but found I was utterly gripped. I won a pudding coin-toss and triumphantly ate cake, not fruit.
Afternoon Exercise Ordeal
Feeling I should move mid-afternoon, I wrote a list of mostly gentle exercise options, but included a wildcard local class in high-intensity interval training (HIIT). The dice dealt me HIIT. I don't really understand HIIT, but it sounded ominous and proved worse. An extremely energetic lady called Stacey made us jump up and down to high-BPM noise for the longest 45 minutes of my life. I thought I was dying throughout and managed to disgust everyone by using an abandoned dirty coffee mug to get a desperate drink of water.
Evening Surprises
My husband and I were apprehensive about our jointly agreed list of evening options, which included trying to persuade people to hang out with us spontaneously on a school night and shopping for curtains. Mercifully, I threw a three: dinner at a new pizza and pasta place, where crispy, golden, deep-fried artichokes and paper-thin Roman pizza healed my HIIT trauma. We ended the night with a surprisingly successful random Netflix pick: an offbeat, gently funny Zach Galifianakis gardening show.
Conclusion: Freedom in Letting Go
My experiment was miles from Hawkins's fully randomized life, a pathetic attempt at minor spontaneity. I can't imagine lightening up enough to let the fates decide longer-term. There was a certain lightness, though, to a day freed from the prison of my preferences, and a different kind of calm in accepting momentarily that I couldn't control absolutely everything. Sometimes life gives you crispy artichokes, and sometimes it gives you elevated burpees, and that's OK. But you can prise my Moomin mug from my cold, dead hands.
