I’m possibly a little long in the tooth to be expecting things to work out just because I want them to. But since my overwhelming desire is for balance, I wonder whether that is just self-indulgence. I don’t know so much.
It’s a weird thing; I have a view of the world, which is certainly nuanced by my experiences. We all do. That’s a given. And since my experiences have largely been middle of the road, fundamentally comfortable (in a Mazloan sense), fundamentally happy, fundamentally well-loved and so on, I have to confess that part of any internal dialogue I routinely have is a voice commanding me to stop being such a whiner.
This morning I woke up with two healthy children, a healthy fiancee, a warm bed, because I slept in it, and I made myself a nutritious meal straight from the stuff that was on hand in the kitchen. As I write this, I am sitting outside on a cool, but pleasant night, drinking beer I didn’t need, on a MacBook that is overwhelmingly overqualified for this blog post.
And yet I am pissed off.
Here’s the thing: because I strive for balance; because I work, daily (kind of … twice weekly anyway … twice monthly for sure), on trying to be the best version of me (okay … very occasionally, but with extreme prejudice), I feel like I should be able to observe some sort of existential progress.
But life is like an infinite loop. You move forward, you pat yourself on the back, you get some accolades and then some stranger makes a bald observation about some behaviour you thought had been long since left in the past, and you regress.
And that’s not just me. That’s you too. That’s every paranoid, terrified, human being alive. Which is all of us, except Donald Trump and the main character from American Psycho. And Dick Cheney.
It’s important, I guess, to at least remain on speaking terms with the people you once were because as much as you think they’ve been left in the past, and as much as you purposefully control against them, they apparently are just waiting to be cracked out of the can at unexpected moments.
So what is it? Is the world imbalanced, or am I? In this quest of mine, I really do believe (think … fantasise perhaps) that I put in the requisite hours of filing to get the rough edges off me.
Because I’ll tell you what: there were (are) billions of them. Billions of petty slights that I am still wearing like scars. And yet I know all this. I acknowledge the self-inflicted damage I’ve exacerbated out of weakness.
I suppose in the end, it’s what they mean when they say ignorance is bliss. Perhaps the problem is the capability for rational thought. For self-questioning. Embracing growth, at least partially, sucks. You begin to think you deserve things. And I’m possibly a little long in the tooth to be expecting things to work out just because I want them to.