|
My Profile
Because I can't bear to eulogize Doug - 2008-08-19
|
2:15 p.m. - 2005-08-04
Looks like I've come to the point all cynics get to eventually, I have become afraid of good things. I'm afraid of talking about happy stuff. I don't like exposing my softer self. Of all the social ouchies, ridicule is the one I fear most. Being mocked hurts me more than a left to the jaw. To open myself to a potential jeer is scarier than swimming with crocodiles. And nothing leaves me more vulnerable than enthusing on the positive. I know part of my reluctance to appear happy is just another shitty leftover from my childhood. You had to be 10 kinds of stupid to let my mother know you liked something. Open happiness was the red cape in front of my mother's demented bull. An innocent slip at the dinner table about liking someone or enjoying a particular activity and she'd come charging out to gore you for your idiocy. "You like figure skating? What are you, a sequin freak? Mwahahahaha! Figure skating! Look girls, your sister is going to be a ballerina on ice skates! Hee hee hee hee hee! My God, what kind of fool likes figure skating?" It didn't have to be a trite sport, any kind of positive review got you slapped down. Feeling good about anyone or anything was a severe no-no. My mother made sure to put the ugliest spin possible on any attachments. Friends were dissected and scorned. "Why do you waste time with that awful Jamie? Her mother is a dog groomer for Christ's sake! Jamie probably has fleas." "You think Tommy is nice? The boy is an idiot. Can't find his ass with both hands and a flashlight. Besides, he only goes out with you because you have big tits, you know. It's not like you have anything else going for you. C'mon! Look at yourself! Think some guy will be impressed with your stupid overalls and that dumb bun on top of your head? With your hair up like that your face looks way too fat. Suuure, I'll bet Tommy is just crazy about a fat moon face slob with a sequin fetish. He's a moron and you're a pig on ice skates, a perfect couple." God, what a bitch. So there's that. 17 years of that crap, I learned well how to live life rolled up like an armadillo. There's more though. Somewhere along the way I became ashamed of being a sap. Maybe there are true cynics, ones whose spirits are curdled and their brains hardwired for disbelief. But mostly I think cynics are people like me, disillusioned romantics. I am, you know, I am a romantic. A Hallmark commercial snifflin', daisy chain weaving, puppies in a basket crooning, wish upon a star romantic. Watching an elderly couple take a turn on the dance floor will send me straight to the ladies room to huddle in a stall and cry my mascara off. My kids' school concerts destroy me. I don't even know if I can hit the high note in the "O'er the land of the freeeee…" part of the National Anthem. I choke up and lose my voice at "Oh say can you see…" There I am at Shea Stadium with my hand over my heart and boogers dripping off my chin. Every fucking time. It's humiliating. I would like to be brave enough to not be ashamed of my gooey soft center. I like baseball. I love my country. Is it such a crime to be a fan? Of not only the Mets, but of America? But my weeping at ballgames makes me feel like a dope. Any overt squishiness on my part makes me cringe. I am ashamed and afraid. Ashamed because some part of me acknowledges that my country is no great shakes. Our leaders are scoundrels and fools. Thieves and bigots and hypocrites. Our history is black with cruelty and needless suffering. Our foreign policy has been a disaster since the French and Indian War. To love such a flawed institution is to either deny our failings or to be too stupid to see them. And I ain't stupid. Nor am I willing to be an ostrich. That kind of head in the sand, la la la everything is fine shtick belongs to the Conservatives. If they want to believe that polishing a turd long enough will net you a diamond, they can go right ahead. But a turd is always a turd, no matter how shiny it gets. So how? How can any sane reasonable intelligent person admit to loving shiny turds? How can anyone with open eyes and a functioning brain love anything? Why do fools fall in love? Maybe they're the only ones who can. Then there is the fear. The fear of mockery. Seems like anytime I do open up there's a Nelson Muntz nearby with a pointing finger and a big scornful, "HA HA!" aimed right at me. Like I said at the top of this thing, I cannot bear to be mocked. Hate me if you must, but do not EVER poke fun at me. Do not twit me for my enthusiasms. Well, do it if your intention is to make me bleed. I guarantee the most casual of cheap shots will do serious damage. It's to that end why I am always striving never to be caught with my emotional pants down. Secretly I am just as passionate about the beauty of life as I am about its foibles. It's just safer to get a good mad on about Halliburton than it is to wax rhapsodic over kittens. People have been so kind when I post memes. When I let the guard down a little and talk about good stuff. But I never post one of those without a cringe. I never know when Nelson will strike. Fricken scarier than all get out to me. Honestly? I could write like that all the time. I could yammer on about my personal joys and show you my secret heart. But I won't. You'd know for sure what a mushy-brained damnfool I am and I couldn't bear to be that vulnerable. I'm just not that brave. ~LA
|
