Monday, August 26, 2013

In which our heroine contemplates martyrdom

I've noticed that I tend to shy away from controversial subjects on my blog.  Not intentionally.  I guess I just sort of view this blog as a net to catch all my more fun neuroses and not really a place to pick fights with the crazies of the internet.  Although I can't tell you how many times I've held myself back from writing a not so impartial blog post siding with one particular Real Housewife in whatever feud she was engaging in that week. But you know, clearly I have blog standards.

So what hot button issue is up for debate tonight?  Well nothing, really.  I'm sorry, that was kind of a misleading intro.  But for the record, I am a big fat libber socialist, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Too much?  Should I just go back to discussing bravo t.v. programming?  Or regular t.v. programming? Or I could just stop typing all together?...

...too bad.  But don't delete this url from your internet browser quite yet, I am not actually going to discuss politics.  I am however, going to type pretty candidly about something that I have been struggling with a lot recently.  So you still might want to brace yourself for some emotional oversharing.  In fact, you might want to go ahead and make that a rule when you come here from now on.

One of the many perils of approaching each day by trying to be the best version of yourself is that you will fail 95% of time.  Sometimes, they are small failings, like being internally annoyed when the overly tanned Mom and her two douche bag teenage sons monopolize the frozen yogurt machines.  Because that IS annoying.  And sometimes, they are big failings, like doing something kind for someone else and feeling aggravated when it is either not noticed or not appreciated or not reciprocated.

I have the driest of dry senses of humor.  Like Sahara dry.  It's just my nature.  I'm sure you hadn't noticed it until I pointed it out to you just now.  (I rest my case.)  Anyways, occasionally my sarcasm can leave people with the distinct impression that I am less than a nice person.  Of course, my resting bitch face doesn't help matters either.  But the fact of the matter is that I do try to go out of my way to be considerate and to help others.  (What can I say? Jesus and Sesame Street taught me well.)

And I shouldn't be motivated by any sort of return.  I shouldn't care if my good deeds don't receive some ticker-tape parade level of recognition.  I shouldn't be so narcissistic as to think that my actions are so grand and impacting.

But sometimes, sometimes it's difficult not to be a whiny little woe-is-me B, especially when it feels like I am putting out approximately 80% more effort than about 80% of the people around me.  And then here we go, down the emo rabbit hole, where I become the grossly abused and put upon candidate for sainthood, two miracles shy of being recognized by the Vatican.

Naturally, I try to quell this way of thinking as soon as it starts percolating in the obsessive side of my brain (which is...both sides) because it's just so arrogant and unfair and completely unproductive.  It's also not largely based on reality.

Sure, I open doors for people more often than doors are opened for me.  Sure I offer to help people more often than they offer to help me.  Sure I email and ask friends how they are doing more often than they do me. But it shouldn't matter.  And it doesn't.  Most of the time.  C'est la humanity.

I'm working on it.  Hopefully someday this will be a way of thinking I reserve only for my children.

But in the meantime, on the eve of Moses' return, when I've stayed up way too late typing and proofreading this post when I could have been sleeping or watching season 2 of Awkward, let us all shed a single tear for me, Wendy Kozak, the greatest (and most persecuted) martyr that the world has ever known.

I swear I wasn't kidding about the whole dry humor thing.  I guess it's just pretty subtle.

Until next time, kiddos. Ta-ta.

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