I like to joke a lot about being mediocre, but sometimes, being average just gets to me. My self confidence seems to be fair-weathered. I have to nurture it like a tender flower or, before too long, I'll find myself sulking in a pool of self-loathing, in danger of drowning in my own hypothetical tears.
I will spare you the whoa-is-me details of my latest episode, but seriously! What is this thing with self pity? Why do I get this way sometimes and what can I learn from it?
It's not depression or even insecurity. It's more of a general sense of not being sparkly-enough. It's mixed feelings of being scrutinized and forgotten, feeling unnecessary yet entitled. At the same time, I don't want to care what the world thinks about who I am, so it drives me nuts when I find myself practically addicted to everybody else's reassurance and approval. I wish there was a pill to get rid of pride. I would swallow it with a big bite of humble pie and chase it down with a gulp of suck-it-up. I want God to be proud of me, not people.
The other day I dove head first into a facebook debate. I knew it was a bad idea but I did it anyway. I just couldn't resist the topic. I deflowered that conversation like a cheap box of chocolates. I've always fancied a good debate. What sets me apart, however, is my cheeky way of turning a serious argument into a three ring circus. Watching people explode into flaming tirades has always been a source of entertainment for me. Instead of getting mad, I flippantly antagonize. It's a contest. I feel like if I can make the opponent lose their temper and act a fool, I've won. Sinister, I tell you.
This post comes to you as a cautionary notice, so before you get all gaga over my son(s) (and how could you not?). I want you to know a few things, because you are in for a treat if they're considering you to join our tribe.
My boys' dad is the poster child of how to respect, serve, adore and listen to a woman. They have grown up knowing what it looks like to love a woman. Meanwhile, I've devoted my days to strategically investing exorbitant
amounts of quality time with our sons, revealing to them all things girl-confidential. It is my aim to de-mystify the female creature and do my best to teach my boys our body language, subtle nuances and decode any passive aggressive girl-speak. I warn them about our instinctive urges to control and undermine. I teach them to resist our blubbery tears and fluttering puppy dog lashes. I coach them on how to recognize when a girl is twisting an argument in attempt to reverse blame. If I've done my job, my sons will be immune to whining and nagging know how to dodge girls who use these bags of tricks. Hopefully by the time I'm finished galvanizing their spines, my boys will become men able to resist bewitching Delilah-like powers of fruit-scented Jezebels.
Ladies, you will thank me later. Because, I'm really helping you, you know, weeding out the tramps and the manipulators, preserving my man child for a nice girl he can bring home to mama. You're a nice girl, aren't you?
