Maybe it’s that I’m thirty, maybe it’s that I’m a parent, maybe it’s that I’m grappling with the terms of being an adult and being a parent, but I had one of those weird, crazy moments the other day where life took one of those subtle yet unexpected turns where you simultaneously think, ‘I don’t give a shit,’ and ‘yes, I totally give a shit-too much shit, actually. I am rolling in shit.’
When I walk into a store, I will occasionally see these completely put together people. It’s usually women, but sometimes it’s men. Which isn’t to say that I walk into a store on most days looking like a hobo, but I also probably don’t look like I’m dressed to go to the Met. But then I see those perfectly put together people and I feel…short. Literally, I feel short. They could be physically shorter than me, but I’ll feel short and somehow, well, like I don’t belong. And underdressed. Always that.
But this all comes back to something, the whole not giving a shit giving a shit part of the very inarticulate quandary. I’m the first person who will shout from the rooftops all my many imperfections. If I’m honest, I started doing that when I was younger and I felt completely imperfect and if I were to actually make fun of myself before others could make fun of me I was, well, safe. And then at some point, I was introduced to tanning and hair dye and diets and I looked the part of some Hollywood idiot. Which was weird, because every time I looked in the mirror I didn’t see some attractive person, I saw the girl who has crooked teeth and a bad hairstyle. It’s not insecurity, I was probably just seeing myself for who I really was: I wasn’t some fake bimbo-EVEN if I looked that on the outside occasionally.
But what happened was, I grew up. And though there were so many times when I’m in a store and I see the tall beautiful people and I’m with my daughter and I kind of feel like both her babysitter and someone who travels the world in a rusted out RV, I started to feel totally and 100% ‘cool’ with myself.
And that ‘cool’ with myself did a wonderful thing. It wasn’t an ego driven thing, it meant that the less time I spent concentrating on how I looked or how other people were looking at me, or was my hair perfect and did I say the wrong thing, the more time I spent listening. To other people. The more time I spent falling in love with people, strangers even. My life got fuller. It didn’t get fuller for the reasons that so many people think your life gets fuller: material wealth, passionate love, perfect family, no, it got fuller because I listened without judgment for a while. Until it became a habit.
The whole, ‘not giving a shit’ thing was pretty damn awesome, until I realized I was completely fooling myself. I did give a shit. Maybe even my badge of niceness was representative of me giving a shit. Maybe it meant that I actually did care, too much, and though I was listening, I was admittedly probably listening because, ‘I really, really, really wanted, nay, NEEDED people to like me.’ Because if people liked me, it made me feel a hell of a lot better about myself, like I was actually doing something. In essence, trying so hard to make others happy was a bit of a selfish pursuit-without realizing it-because even in wanting so desperately to make others happy, I was probably in part doing so because I needed the validation. I need the validation.
It’s not an entirely bad thing, but it’s not entirely genuine either. It’s just sort of in the middle of the road.
I knew someone a long time ago, someone I cared deeply about. Not in a high school drama way, but in a genuine friend way. This person pulled back and forth like the tides of the ocean and so it was my kryptonite, it’s always my kryptonite, those people that pull back and forth. Those people that dangle you with such an enticing carrot that is true friendship and then pull it back and you don’t know why. I’m always hesitant to share these stories, because in the back of my head I think, ‘girl, you sound arrogant/like a lunatic/like you’re 12.’ But I don’t know how to write it any other way and while I could insist it comes not from a place of arrogance, I suppose I can’t please everyone. All the time. So it was one of those friendships where I would be let in, only to be shut out. And while normal people would throw the papers in the air, I’d always come back for more. Because maybe, just maybe, I would think, if I am nice this person will realize that I’m worth spending time on and that I do wish them well. And we can get beers and drinks and hug and everything, everything will be right with the world.
But at the end of the day, who really cares. Who cares! It wasn’t until someone pointed out to me, rather forcefully, that it didn’t really matter what I did because they probably weren’t interested in anything I had to say anyway. And, like a damn defense attorney, I couldn’t accept this type of logic. If you’re nice and you treat people kind, why do they sometimes treat you poorly in return? In the end, perhaps it is ego that drives me to want to make amends to something I’m still not certain to what I’m amending only that I don’t want the anger. In me.
You see, so many of us waste this time with the carrot danglers. Maybe some of us are guilty of dangling carrots-I sure as hell know that at some point, I was guilty of this, too.
Last night as I reveled in my not giving a shitness, I realized that I was acting entirely in the opposite manner-that I really, really truly did and do. And no matter what I do, I will always feel shorter. Somehow shorter. Perhaps it’s an addiction to feeling knocked down at times, maybe because it’s become popular these days or maybe it’s in our nature. We’re not perfect, none of us are. I’d like to say that I’ll stop gravitating toward those fun house mirrors that distort our perceived reality, but I’m not so sure I won’t until I’m a wild and crazy 80 year old, (god willing).
There isn’t an end to this blog post. Because I’m not at the end. I can’t wrap it up as I usually do with some sort of columnist logic because the only logic I can find in these moments is, I’m not finished yet. Growing, learning. Maybe we never are, really. Maybe we all find our happily ever after someday. I hope we all do. But for now, I’m surfing the waves of the dénouement.
When I walk into a store, I will occasionally see these completely put together people. It’s usually women, but sometimes it’s men. Which isn’t to say that I walk into a store on most days looking like a hobo, but I also probably don’t look like I’m dressed to go to the Met. But then I see those perfectly put together people and I feel…short. Literally, I feel short. They could be physically shorter than me, but I’ll feel short and somehow, well, like I don’t belong. And underdressed. Always that.
But this all comes back to something, the whole not giving a shit giving a shit part of the very inarticulate quandary. I’m the first person who will shout from the rooftops all my many imperfections. If I’m honest, I started doing that when I was younger and I felt completely imperfect and if I were to actually make fun of myself before others could make fun of me I was, well, safe. And then at some point, I was introduced to tanning and hair dye and diets and I looked the part of some Hollywood idiot. Which was weird, because every time I looked in the mirror I didn’t see some attractive person, I saw the girl who has crooked teeth and a bad hairstyle. It’s not insecurity, I was probably just seeing myself for who I really was: I wasn’t some fake bimbo-EVEN if I looked that on the outside occasionally.
But what happened was, I grew up. And though there were so many times when I’m in a store and I see the tall beautiful people and I’m with my daughter and I kind of feel like both her babysitter and someone who travels the world in a rusted out RV, I started to feel totally and 100% ‘cool’ with myself.
And that ‘cool’ with myself did a wonderful thing. It wasn’t an ego driven thing, it meant that the less time I spent concentrating on how I looked or how other people were looking at me, or was my hair perfect and did I say the wrong thing, the more time I spent listening. To other people. The more time I spent falling in love with people, strangers even. My life got fuller. It didn’t get fuller for the reasons that so many people think your life gets fuller: material wealth, passionate love, perfect family, no, it got fuller because I listened without judgment for a while. Until it became a habit.
The whole, ‘not giving a shit’ thing was pretty damn awesome, until I realized I was completely fooling myself. I did give a shit. Maybe even my badge of niceness was representative of me giving a shit. Maybe it meant that I actually did care, too much, and though I was listening, I was admittedly probably listening because, ‘I really, really, really wanted, nay, NEEDED people to like me.’ Because if people liked me, it made me feel a hell of a lot better about myself, like I was actually doing something. In essence, trying so hard to make others happy was a bit of a selfish pursuit-without realizing it-because even in wanting so desperately to make others happy, I was probably in part doing so because I needed the validation. I need the validation.
It’s not an entirely bad thing, but it’s not entirely genuine either. It’s just sort of in the middle of the road.
I knew someone a long time ago, someone I cared deeply about. Not in a high school drama way, but in a genuine friend way. This person pulled back and forth like the tides of the ocean and so it was my kryptonite, it’s always my kryptonite, those people that pull back and forth. Those people that dangle you with such an enticing carrot that is true friendship and then pull it back and you don’t know why. I’m always hesitant to share these stories, because in the back of my head I think, ‘girl, you sound arrogant/like a lunatic/like you’re 12.’ But I don’t know how to write it any other way and while I could insist it comes not from a place of arrogance, I suppose I can’t please everyone. All the time. So it was one of those friendships where I would be let in, only to be shut out. And while normal people would throw the papers in the air, I’d always come back for more. Because maybe, just maybe, I would think, if I am nice this person will realize that I’m worth spending time on and that I do wish them well. And we can get beers and drinks and hug and everything, everything will be right with the world.
But at the end of the day, who really cares. Who cares! It wasn’t until someone pointed out to me, rather forcefully, that it didn’t really matter what I did because they probably weren’t interested in anything I had to say anyway. And, like a damn defense attorney, I couldn’t accept this type of logic. If you’re nice and you treat people kind, why do they sometimes treat you poorly in return? In the end, perhaps it is ego that drives me to want to make amends to something I’m still not certain to what I’m amending only that I don’t want the anger. In me.
You see, so many of us waste this time with the carrot danglers. Maybe some of us are guilty of dangling carrots-I sure as hell know that at some point, I was guilty of this, too.
Last night as I reveled in my not giving a shitness, I realized that I was acting entirely in the opposite manner-that I really, really truly did and do. And no matter what I do, I will always feel shorter. Somehow shorter. Perhaps it’s an addiction to feeling knocked down at times, maybe because it’s become popular these days or maybe it’s in our nature. We’re not perfect, none of us are. I’d like to say that I’ll stop gravitating toward those fun house mirrors that distort our perceived reality, but I’m not so sure I won’t until I’m a wild and crazy 80 year old, (god willing).
There isn’t an end to this blog post. Because I’m not at the end. I can’t wrap it up as I usually do with some sort of columnist logic because the only logic I can find in these moments is, I’m not finished yet. Growing, learning. Maybe we never are, really. Maybe we all find our happily ever after someday. I hope we all do. But for now, I’m surfing the waves of the dénouement.
