Ten Years Ago

It’s Fleet Week in Seattle, or whatever the name is for not only Fleet Week (that’s Navy), but every other military branch, as well. Military Week? Sounds dull, probably correct? Whatever it is when the Blue Angels zip low over my office every day and just about make me shit my pants?

Currently there are some naval ships docked where the cruise ships usually depart, and if I wasn’t so long out of the military lifestyle, I might be able to tell you what kind of ships they are. But I am so long out of the military lifestyle. Ten years ago this month, actually, an anniversary that never even occurred to me until I saw those ships yesterday. So about ten years and a handful of days ago, I called a naval base and asked to speak to the person who would become my ex-husband and told him that he had to stop by the apartment that night to take care of the hamster, because I was leaving California and never coming back. I had The Cat in the car, so that’s why I couldn’t take the hamster. No, I don’t remember why I was an adult who owned a hamster.

If you’re new, you should know that the person who would become my ex-husband knew good and well that he was going to become my ex-husband, and he was just as aware of the reasons for this (the short, non-detailed list includes adultery and stealing six grand from my bank account). So please don’t think I was being insensitive a decade and some loose change ago, okay?

If you’re old (and most of you are), you may share a small cheer with me now, in celebration of my having left him in the first place and our terrific friendship together since. You can also shake your head in disbelief that I was ever married to begin with, and let me tell you, you are not alone. I do the same thing every time I bother to remember it. Aside from loving the hilariously true label of divorcée, it baffles me that a) I was ever suckered into that to begin with, b) nobody had the stones to try and stop me because, and I quote, “you always seemed like you had your shit together,” and c) at one (very low) point in my life, I was assured that I would always have to be married to that person because not being married to them anymore would mean that I had been wrong and also my family would be disappointed in me.

Obviously, I eventually got over that last part. Much like when I admitted to my family that I was an atheist who gave money to Planned Parenthood every year, admitting to them that I didn’t want to be married anymore wasn’t as big of a deal as I thought it was. I’d even started laying the groundwork for them months before I got taken for six large. I was visiting St. Louis and riding around with my dad when I saw some For Rent signs in front of some flats. “I’d like to have a place like that when I move back someday,” I told him.

“What do you mean, when you move back someday?”

I took a breath. “Well, I can’t stay in California. I need to come home.”

“Erin, you can’t stay married and be in different cities. It doesn’t work like that.”

I shrugged. “Well, it would be fine with me if I wasn’t married.”

I didn’t tell them about the adultery (his) and the lying (again, his) and the stealing (his his his) had yet to come, but at least the secret was out there. I did not want to be married anymore. I did not want to live in California anymore. I did not want to be connected to the military anymore, because in addition to feeling as though I was trapped in an airless marriage, I also felt trapped by this idea of an institutional juggernaut behind him. Not so much for the warfare capability or anything (I mean, I wasn’t married to a Marine), but because the military is also a community, and one in which the participants feel inextricably linked and fiendishly devoted.

When you are associated with the military, you have to be keenly aware of your behavior. You have to observe a pecking order, even amongst other wives. You cannot say shitty things about George W. Bush. And you know that no matter what, as a dependent of someone who is in the military, no one who is also in it will have your back if you leave. Divorcing a member of the military is like being excommunicated from a church you don’t particularly want to attend. You can’t go to the bank anymore. You can’t shop on base. You can’t even get on base, at least not back then, at least with no kids and so close to 9/11. Even getting anyone at the base to admit that my soon-to-be ex-husband was there when I called sobbing after I saw my bank balance was a chore. It is its own little world and once you declare yourself an outsider, you are well and truly out.

Not that I’m complaining. I could have joined the military, and in fact my mother strongly suggested it when I graduated high school, about a year before 9/11, which she does not like me to bring up. But it was not the place for me. I’ve said before that if you’re capable of joining the military, doing your job, completing your service and emerging as a well-rounded and contributing member of society, then you have my highest respect. I was simply not the ideal candidate. I was not the ideal dependent, either, because there is something inside of me (my parents might call it a “bad attitude”) that instinctively bucks against the structure and discipline the military provides, and by extension, attempts to impose on the spouses of its members. So I knew that once I was out, I would be out. I knew that I couldn’t expect anyone I knew to still talk to me, and that the military would likely do whatever it could to keep me from getting what I was owed by one of its members. I knew it, but I wanted out more.

Which was actually fairly easy for me, far easier than it would have been if I’d married, say, a cop. Because as much as it sucked to leave California with a week and a half’s notice with no money and a decimated credit score, how much more would it have sucked to stay in the same city where my ex was still supported by an infamously protective organization of pseudo-military force? Depending on how acrimonious the divorce was, how supremely would that have sucked?

I thought about this after seeing the ships in Elliott Bay yesterday, and about how, ten years before, I’d just landed back in St. Louis, completely broke, clipped free of the military complex, and with absolutely no concept of where I’d be in a decade. In some ways, the past ten years have been incredibly hard. In others, and I say this as a person with the forgetfulness of ten years behind them, it hasn’t been too bad. As with almost everything, I suppose that it could have been worse, and for that, at least, I am thankful.

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The Pinterest of Sex

Like most of the Internet, I recently watched the trailer for 50 Shades of Grey. I read the book, too, back when it first came out and some women I worked with pressed it on me. “You’ll love it,” they promised.

I did not love it. I didn’t even like it. Aside from one kind of hot scene that quickly devolved into a silly parody of anything resembling actual sex or BDSM, 50 Shades of Grey was a disturbing portrayal of an abusive relationship, the likes of which are aspired to by what is evidently a whole fuckload of women. But I know you know how I feel about the book, so let’s stick to why Facebook seized with fervor over the 50 Shades of Grey trailer the other day.

Because I can’t figure it out.

That trailer is boring as hell. I could accurately liken it to disappointing sex. There’s all this anticipation and buildup that by itself isn’t even too interesting, but there’s a part of your brain (or, um, other area) that thinks “this has to get better, I bet this gets so much fucking better.” And then…it doesn’t get better. It culminates in maybe 4 seconds of what the producers (and the author, and the legions of dried up fans) determined was a risqué sequence of shots including a blindfold, a wrist pulling against a restraint, and a riding crop slithering down the nape of a naked woman’s neck. Which is ultimately pretty unfulfilling, and all that promise just leaks away like a retreating blush.

Um. How titillating.

Maybe I’ve become desensitized by the amount of porn on the Internet. I am willing to concede that I hardly even notice the hardcore gifs that roll through my Tumblr dashboard every day. It’s just stuff that some people post sometimes alongside photos of pissed off cats and derpy dogs. Even if I do register what I’m seeing, I’m rarely ever put off by it, and I guess it’s debatable if this is because I’m a grown-ass lady who understands about sex and consent and fictionalized images that get people off, or if it’s because I’m a corrupted weirdo whose brain is too polluted to be at all stimulated in anything about that very vanilla 50 Shades of Grey trailer. But I’m guessing it’s the former.

I am clearly in the minority, though, at least when it comes to people I know on Facebook, although this isn’t too surprising because most of those people’s understanding of the power of the Internet is limited to Pinterest. And when you think about it, 50 Shades of Grey is really the Pinterest of sex.

So you have Pinterest, this amorphous cloudlike thing that serves as a way for anyone to build what they believe should be their life. It’s their dream life, basically, all of these things they wish for but maybe don’t have the ability to acquire or talent to achieve. And there’s nothing wrong with that; I have a Pinterest, and I use it to collect images of design. I try to keep it limited to design that I feel is possible for a non-millionaire, though, and I keep it limited to a few basic, easily organized categories. And of course, there are people using Pinterest for other legitimate reasons; there are people who can actually cook and use it for recipes, there are people who can actually build and use it for DIY, there are people who just like certain images and want to keep them in a single, accessible place. I get it. But the majority of Pinterest users aren’t using Pinterest in this way. Instead, they’re crowding every half-cocked cupcake concept or wedding backdrop or abandoned-before-it-ever-began workout plan into a disorganized, ombre-shaded hellscape that’s really no different from a documents file or bookmark list. And all of these things that users were passionate about for the millisecond it took to click “Pin It!” are relegated to this bland limbo where they wait to maybe be viewed again with waning interest or mounting dissatisfaction that they never happened. They never went anywhere. It’s very anticlimactic, so to speak, which is exactly what 50 Shades of Grey is all about.

The protagonist is a dull, spiritless character with no discernible appeal who somehow attracts an archetypal male whose only appeal is that he is an archetypal male. For all the talk about how Anastasia is an example of pointless female characterization, I’d venture to say that Christian is just as poor of an example of men. Neither contains any interesting traits. There is no reason to care about what happens to them. And what happens to them is a lot of formulaic fucking, because despite what Christian Grey claims (“my desires are…unconventional”), even the “dirty” parts of 50 Shades of Grey are entirely boring for anyone who’s ever been properly fucked or watched other people doing it online.

As Pinterest depicts lives not led, 50 Shades of Grey depicts fucking not fucked. Neither is particularly compelling or worth pursuing, but both have become bloated monsters of fickle interests held by bored women who have forgotten how to viscerally enjoy themselves.

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This Is That Thing I Told You I’d Tell You About

Anyone remember that thing I wrote about the other day? Not the part about getting gross on wine plus beer plus champagne, but the other thing? The thing I couldn’t say?

Welllllll I couldn’t say at the time because I hadn’t mentioned it to my managers yet, and although I sincerely doubt any of them know who/where/what I am on the Internet or have any interest in finding out, I didn’t want to say this thing and have it sit there all weekend because just in case some shit went down, I’d rather have one day between me and my notice and not two or three.

So. The thing. The thing with the notice.

inagarten yes

I guess I went and got a new job. The interviewing has been done, the salary has been approved, the paperwork has been signed and the background check has cleared (no secret Ambien sleep murdering for this lady!). My start date is August 11th, which means I’ve got a couple of weeks to brush up on my dormant Excel skills, get used to wearing jeans to work again, and figuring out the bus route, because although this job is half the distance and can be reached by just one bus, I’m still weird like that and will absolutely be doing a dry run on the bus I’ll catch at the time of day I’ll be catching it.

Because, like I said, weird.

I got into work early today to tell my big boss, and because I’m not quitting completely out of hate or fear of having a complete mental breakdown (hey there, previous employer, destroy anyone else’s life lately?), I was incredibly nervous to the point where I felt like I might pee my pants. That’s what happens when I get nervous. I feel like I have to go to the bathroom really bad, even though the rest of me dehydrates so quickly that my lips stick to my gums. My feet and hands get super cold and sometimes (like today), I shake a little bit. Which probably helped, to be honest, because at least I didn’t seem smug or snide about it. Which I wasn’t, anyway, but I smirk when I smile so I can’t trust anything my asshole face does when I’m not looking.

I think I did a decent job of explaining why I was leaving. The technology gap at my current employer is so vast and, frankly, embarrassing, and I’m afraid that if I stay any longer, those parts of my brain will atrophy and I’ll be unemployable anywhere else. I routinely have to tell my co-workers how to save documents to their desktops. And these people make more than me! And their excuse is “I don’t have a degree for this.” For…what? For right-clicking? For dragging and dropping? Nobody has a degree for that, except maybe the suckers who paid to go to secretary school after 1979.

There are process gaps, as well, in that I work for a reactive – not a proactive – company whose “solutions” often amount to slapping a too-small square of duct tape onto the hull of leaking ocean liner. And because of the technology gap, it’s impossible to affect any positive change to this, because not only are people reluctant to document this information in a way that’s legible or properly stored (ahem, meaning probably not printed out and stuck in some random stack of paper on someone’s desk that looks like the bottom of a birdcage), but they’ve been stuck in this culture for so long that they’re clueless that it can be done in any other way. It’s so frustrating and worrying to me, and I got scared at the thought of staying mired in it for any longer.

It, um, also didn’t help that several of the people in my office can’t understand why they shouldn’t say “retarded” while on the phone to clients, or that they refer to people who speak primarily Spanish as “a Hispanic” or “he speaks Mexican.” Yeah. It’s pretty grim. But like I said, the culture is so antiquated and weird, and for the life of me, I couldn’t see a future in which that would change.

So I applied for a job I wasn’t sure I was qualified to get, and then I interviewed for it, and despite at least one interviewer being visibly distracted by the way I sometimes talk with my hands (I didn’t even get close to whacking her, jeez), I got offered the job and I took it. Obviously I’m a little bit scared to start something new and figure out a whole new social structure, but ultimately it will be good for me, and as long as the company doesn’t fold or lay me off in six months (hey there previous previous employer, that really sucked!), I’ll eventually get the hang of it enough to scrape by. And now I get to spend 30 minutes each way reading on the bus instead of an hour in my car, swearing at traffic.

Posted in Paychecks Are Important | 1 Comment

Everything’s Comin’ Up Something

You know what’s a bush league move? Drinking half a bottle of wine, then a beer, then half a bottle of champagne, and then another beer and expecting to go to sleep without the room spinning out of control.

Know who made that bush league move last night? Me. Which means that, before I could fall asleep, I had to make the most mature decision of the night and make myself hurl. I haven’t had to do that in a long time – so long that I barely remember it, but I think it must have involved margaritas and also I must have been living in St. Louis – and if nothing else, then at least the discomfort of the spins coupled with older age makes hurling a lot easier than it was when I was 25 and drooling over a toilet thinking “I would be a terrible bulimic.”

It’s magic, it’s gross but it works, and I got a decent night’s sleep that could have lasted longer had I not experienced an 8am half asleep panic over whether or not I had any coffee downstairs, so I woke up, washed my face, cleaned the litter box, and saw a tutorial on how to moonwalk so I practiced that for a few minutes. FYI – it is hard to moonwalk on carpet.

I’m sort of planning to walk over to Goodwill today to maybe buy a few shirts for…something. Something I can’t talk about just yet, but it’s something I’m very excited about to the point where I feeling like jumping up with my fist in the air and exclaiming “Everything’s comin’ up Milhouse!” Excited to the point that I dare not actually do this because there’s no way this kind of good fortune comes my way and there has to be a catch, like maybe I’ll unexpectedly die before it comes to pass, or this is all a big “SIKE, SUCKA!” or something even worse will happen, like the incessant boat horns I’ve been hearing all fucking morning down in the shipping channel are a sinister seaman’s warning about a waterborne zombie apocalypse (instead of some asshole yacht owner pissed that no one’s raising the bridge for him).

So I’m hoping I’ll be this:

victorious milhouse

Even though I’m fully prepared for this:

sad milhouse gif

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The Problem With Retention

A lot of people I follow on the Internet have been posting the audio of the call made by a man named Ryan Block to cancel his Comcast service. The call is supposed to be hilarious and awkward as the customer retention rep asks over and over again for Ryan Block to provide a reason why he is cancelling his service. And it’s a long call, too, which means this rep did not go down without a fight, and at one point sounded more than a tiny bit crazy for insisting to know exactly how Comcast had so failed Ryan Block.

After making the call, Ryan Block posted the below on Twitter:

“Generally good experiences with Comcast…until we canceled. Rep got straight up belligerent. I was able to record some, should I post it?”

Which he then did, and everyone went nuts.

While I’ve certainly been frustrated when attempting to cancel service (T-Mobile comes to mind, because while they’d had no problem overcharging me for years for increasingly shitty customer service and reception, they seemed positively happy to throw free smartphones and a whole bundle of other shit my way even as I told them repeatedly “nope, sorry, I’m getting an iPhone”), in this case, I sympathize far more with the rep. And I’m kind of angry at Ryan Block, who has obviously never worked in customer service because a) he’d be a little more understanding of why a person would be required to record a reason for cancellation and b) have actual knowledge of what “belligerent” actually means, as I guarantee you that rep’s behavior was nothing compared to the abuse they receive from customers every single day.

When he was tweeted by Comcast, Ryan then tried to place himself on the side of the rep, replying “I hope the quick action you take is a thorough evaluation of your culture and policies, and not the termination of the rep.”

Which seems at odds with his initial assessment, but then again, if he doesn’t understand what “belligerent” actually means, he probably has no idea how a giganto-corp like Comcast would react to that specific feedback.

So while the people I follow are mostly reacting with rage towards Comcast, I think it’s slightly misdirected. Yes, Comcast is ultimately at fault. But it’s not about the rep they hired or his repeated requests for a reason, any reason, just something, please, that he could put into his ticket. It’s about their fucked up policies regarding the human beings who work for them and act as receptacles of verbal abuse every day. Companies like Comcast don’t give a shit that their employees might be berated by people like Ryan Block – who, when asked for a reason the first time, explained that it was calls such as this, and by that I assume he meant “generally inconvenient,” that indicated his general dissatisfaction with Comcast – or publicly humiliated when the customer (or, in this case, former customer) is not 100% satisfied based on their expectations. And it’s anyone’s guess as to whether those expectations are reasonable, but most of the time, they’re not.

The problem isn’t with the rep. The rep is trying to keep his job. The rep is trying to work within the most insane policies monitored by the most sadistic individuals based on the most flawed metrics derived from the most asisine customer feedback. Oh yeah, I know. While my 10+ years of customer service work experience have provided me with invaluable insight into human psychology and manners, it has also made me an embittered husk of a woman who knows that, for an overwhelmingly depressing majority of the time, people are awful and managers are worse and nobody gives a shit about the peon who’s doing the grunt work. And the grunt work is sometimes the most demoralizing, desensitizing, unethical work there is.

In my time, I have been expected to ask incredibly personal and invasive questions of customers, to the point of harassing them when it is clear to everyone except for my company (ahem, the one who’s supposed to care about the profits generated by the experiences of said customers) that all the customer wants to do is get off the goddamn phone. And I didn’t work for a doctor’s office or law firm or any other industry that you’d expect would have access to these facets of a customer’s life. I worked for a consumer goods company. I worked for Big Alcohol. I worked for a company that touted itself as a paragon of good times and relaxation. Meanwhile, my years there caused me to develop migraines and heartburn and one hell of a nasty attitude. And if at any point I’d reacted to a customer’s growing frustration with “I’m sorry, they make me ask this stuff,” I would have been fired immediately. Because companies won’t take the blame for their bad policies. They put that on the employee.

Comcast is no different. Based on my experiences with cable and Internet companies, they’re probably worse. But in my experiences with T-Mobile, Charter, and others, I’ve made sure to emphasize that my problem is not with the rep. My problem is with what the company expects of them. It’s with the absurdly limited knowledge they provide to them. It’s with knowing that there are people doing impossible jobs and getting paid far less than they deserve while the company that employs them is exploiting their desire to support themselves by keeping their jobs.

And it’s with people like Ryan Block, who probably still doesn’t know what “belligerent” means.

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Beet This

Earlier this week, I texted Courtney:

“First CSA e-mail of the yeeeeaaaarrrr!”

She replied:

“I almost forwarded it to you so I could say ‘YEAH!!!!’”

This is about as well as either of us could convey our sentiments, although if I had a non-emoji way of expressing that I wanted to chew my way through the entire summer starting NOW, I would have.

Obviously, we’re very excited about the start of this year’s CSA. Although Courtney is camping out of town and can’t accompany me on the first pickup tomorrow, I am all stocked up on bags for the Sunday ritual of splitting our wares down the middle (at least until we get something I can’t stand like cilantro or cucumbers because Courtney can just have all of that) and, in my house, anyway, figuring out how to store everything with like ingredients so nothing goes to waste. It’s just easier to keep the bok choy in the same bag with the basil and cabbage if all of it’s going into the same dish. There you go. That’s my tip. Somebody give me a cooking show. My knife skills are better than half of the jokers on TV now, anyway.

In addition to local, organic, non-GMO produce tasting better and being more nutritionally and economically valuable, it doesn’t last for two weeks in the vegetable crisper the way Wal-Mart produce does, so you’ve got a lot less time to figure out what to do with it before it transforms into a slightly fermented slime (on the other hand, are we absolutely sure that spinach wine isn’t a thing yet?).

Luckily, I’ve continued to write those weekly menus since our last CSA ended, so I’m already on top of a meal plan for our first pickup:

csa 2014 week 1

Ignore Saturday (today). Graham and I went out for burgers on Thursday and I just fell asleep last night, so those meals from last week’s menu have turned into me eating like a queen for lunch and dinner today, plus there’s the Ballard Seafood and Beer Fest going on this weekend and Nick and I are supposed to wander down there and enjoy this 90-degree heat while everyone else in Seattle complains (okay, I get it, most Seattleites don’t have air-conditioning…but do we really need a severe heat advisory, especially when the humidity levels here are somewhere near zero, you gigantic pussies?).

The heat is supposed to stick around until Tuesday, so everything I’m making uses as little oven and stovetop cooking as possible. Salads are the key here, which is not only a thing Younger Me would never thought she’d say but also it’s helpful that Bastille Day is this Monday which makes this week’s menu feel French as shit.

I’m just thankful that I know what to do with fava beans now. And cabbage. And even beets, which I’ve been doing a lot better with since last year, when I could only dice them as finely as possible before disguising them in a sauce. While I know that we’ve got a few more weeks of lettuces and basil to go, I’m more excited than daunted about how to use it all up this year and hey, um, friends, I would be totally open to trading some of the copious and obscenely fragrant field basil for, I dunno, some drinks sometime? No need to let produce or alcohol go to waste. At least until spinach wine becomes a thing. Let’s work something out.

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Just Desserts

(Not about cake. Sorry.)

A few years ago, the New York Times ran a piece about which drivers are more detrimental to traffic – the speeder-uppers or the wait-and-seers. Or some names like that. I don’t remember exactly and I don’t feel like looking it up, partly because trying to access any old article from the New York Times is a laughable pain in the ass since they think I should be paying a subscription fee (the only more laughable pain in the ass is the Seattle Times, which constantly asks me to select my neighborhood from a pop-up but only lets people read five free articles per month and, like Seattle news anchors, refers to a male suspect as “the guy” and police officers as “cops”).

Anyway, I think the point of the article was that the people who speed ahead to try to get ahead of traffic were nearly equally at fault with the people who wait for their turn. On one hand, the speeder-uppers are dangerous and selfish and cause sudden spasms of traffic blockage due to their inability to just wait a goddamn minute. On the other hand, the wait-and-seers eventually get defensive against the actions of the speeder-uppers and try their best to deny them a space in the line.

It’s possible that, from my tone, you’ve guessed that I am a wait-and-seer. The few times where I may have been mistaken for a speeder-upper is when I’m in a new city, am unfamiliar with a traffic pattern, and have been pushed to the very end of a disappearing lane because the other wait-and-seers were so sick of the speeder-uppers that none of them will let me in the entire time. Mostly I think I am a wait-and-seer because I was raised Midwestern, Catholic, and poor, and not only am I supposed to be humble and long-suffering, but I also have no expectation that anything will ever get better and I’m just going to have to sit here and be patient about it. Self-righteously patient, of course, but patient all the same.

What bugs a wait-and-seer the most is the apparent sense of privilege held by the speeder-uppers. Those people who don’t see why they should have to wait in line or give everyone else a fair shot. There’s an arrogance and aggression to the speeder-upper that a wait-and-seer cannot comprehend, a sense of entitlement endemic in the “me first” mentality that feels poisonous at heart. I think about this a lot because I’m in traffic a lot, which means that I think about my own death at the hands of some Audi driver who couldn’t just get in fucking line with everyone else and had to run me nine stories off the edge of the Seattle Viaduct.

But it’s not just about traffic.

It seems evident to me that all of this “me first” is really about a culture of deserving, and if you look around, you’ll notice that a hell of a lot of people do things, buy things, say things, etc. because they have convinced themselves that whatever reward they get from it is what they feel they deserve. I deserve to be the first in this line. I deserve this expensive car. I deserve this piece of cake, this extra square footage, this affair.

But it’s not really about what that one person deserves. Like, it’s not about how you deserve something for yourself. It’s really about you deserving something more than another person deserves something, and all of the convoluted mental gymnastics required to convince yourself of this. That you are more deserving of something – of anything – than another human being.

And the more I thought about that, the more it made me feel sick. For one, I thought about how pervasive the culture of deserving seems to be. It goes beyond regular circumstance or even competition. It is everywhere, it is reflected in everything, and rather than it being a natural extension of our survival instinct, to me, it feels more like an excuse mechanism for behavior that we know is either inadvisable or just plain reprehensible.

For two, I thought about how hard it must be to avoid the culture of deserving, and how, if you’re raising a kid, you could even begin to try to keep them separate from it. I thought about my nephew, who probably doesn’t know yet about the things adults will do to get ahead or guarantee they get what they’ve convinced themselves they deserve. He hasn’t figured it out but I’m not telling him; I mean, I believe in being straight with the kid but I’m not one for crushing spirits (no matter what you read about me). But also, I’m afraid that he’s already experiencing it, and most frightfully, I worry that he’s already practicing it without even realizing it. I mean, has anyone told him how shitty it is to put people down so you can feel better about yourself? And I don’t just mean saying “don’t do that,” but actually explained why it’s shitty and what it does to society in general and what that behavior says about the person who perpetrates it?

For three, I thought about how exhausting it already is to be as vigilant as I am about everything I’m doing wrong. I’m honest with myself, okay, I do a lot of things wrong. I do things lazy and stupid and unwillingly sometimes. I’m basically being my own Thought Police, so imagine how much more exhausting it is to think “hey, I should be able to get ahead here” and then counter myself with “um, okay, asshole.”

But maybe we could all do with a little more Thought Policing. Maybe we could all be a little more self-righteously patient. Maybe we could all learn to sit there and stew and wonder what other things we could be doing with our time if only we weren’t wishing that everyone else thought they deserved a little bit less.

Posted in I Just Can't | 3 Comments