I don’t like to complain. I didn’t say I don’t, I said I don’t like to. So, if you don’t want to hear me on my soapbox, I suggest you don’t read this post. That said, I want to get something off my chest and would love if you’d indulge me.
I can’t stand when people disregard certain things I say or write just because I look too young to know any better. It’s particularly trying because, while I’m on the back side of 20, I could pass for a teenager. It’s not necessarily a bad thing; when I’m 40, I’ll probably look 30 at the most (if I quit smoking *sigh*). But people take one look at me and assume I don’t know shit from Shinola.
I’ve got responsibilities—a child, a job, a car payment, and now, a mortgage (and once we get moved in, everything that comes with it). If you don’t think being a stay-at-home-mom, full-time student, and full-time writer is a job, it’s because you’ve never been any of these things, or certainly not at the same time.
It’s difficult being in my twenties. Oftentimes, I feel like I’m in my thirties—forties even. This might have something to do with feeling like I was born in the wrong century. Regardless, the stress from responsibilities adds up. I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders and start worrying I’ll never finish anything I’ve started.
Other times, I think, “Did I really graduate high school ten years ago?” Part of that has to do with being a little behind the college curve. As getting busy being good would say, I’m a non-trad. For you ‘trads’ out there, that doesn’t make you any better than me. It just means I’ve gained more life experience than you. Of course, that’s a matter of opinion, but most of you don’t have ‘real’ jobs either, even after graduating college ‘on time’—not in this economy. And at least I can say I have more work experience than you, albeit a tad sketchy.
I acknowledge there are many things I do not know. That’s why I love to learn. If I don’t know something, you can bet I will Google the hell outta that shit.
I’m not completely ignorant, though—far from it, in fact.
Just because I don’t have a very large vocabulary doesn’t mean I’m dumb; it means I haven’t learned or mastered the use of certain words.
I’m still learning. We all are, I hope.
Just because I talk like Boomhower from King of the Hill doesn’t mean I’m dumb; it means I have difficulty spitting out words in the right way at the right time.
I never said I was good at speaking.
Just because I live in a Podunk town with a Podunk outlook on life doesn’t make you any better than me. It doesn’t make me wrong and you right. It just makes us different—or the same, depending on where you’re from.
I like to think the world isn’t as big a place it seems, don’t you?
I still have faith in humanity.
The fact that I’m writing this post makes me so upset I want to stamp my little feet and pull my hair out. Why do I let these people make me feel so irrelevant, so inconsequential? When will I reach the point of not caring what others think about me?
I’m starting to get it. When people try to reach out beyond their current station in life, they get knocked down a peg. Parents do this to their children. Adults do this to their elderly parents. Abusers do this to their victim. Bullies do this to the wimpy kid or the dorky kid. Britain did this to the American colonists. The colonists did this to the Native Americans. White folks did this to black folks. On and on and on. It’s the way of the world, right? It just comes naturally?
I don’t believe people are inherently wicked. I think we all need to take a look at ourselves before we cast judgment on others—that whole three fingers pointed back to you thing. We need to realize that our actions and our words affect other people. Just because someone’s outlook, opinion, religion, or anything else is different doesn’t make them wrong.
Now that I have your attention and if you’re still reading, I will admit a few things.
I’m a little forgetful. I like to think it’s because I’m a sponge and information the water. I soak up as much knowledge as I can hold and grow because of it. Then over time, the water slowly leaks out and I have to absorb more before I become a crusty dried up old piece of polyurethane. Yep, I Googled ‘sponge.’ Corny, I know. All for the sake of a pretty crappy metaphor.
For example, the other day I repeated the exact same thing without missing a beat, on two different occasions. I plumb forgot what I had said in the middle of saying it. I lost my train of thought. They looked at me like my screws were coming loose.
Now, I do say some dumb shit.
That same day, my fiancé and I were at the bank, and the teller asked if I wanted my cash in twenties. I said “twenties is fine” without even batting an eyelash.
He looked at me like I had lost my ever-loving mind. “Don’t you mean ‘are’ fine? Aren’t you a writer or something?”
Before I jumped the gun and got my little ego hurt, I actually did pause to think. “Did I say that? Oops. I didn’t get the time to edit it first. Now you know why I say some dumb shit, or why it takes me so long to find the right words. I’m constantly trying to edit myself.”
Why do I feel the need to do this? Do I really care what anyone thinks? Should I care? Who gives a shit what anyone thinks, I’m writing for myself aren’t I?
No, I’m not. The truth is, I’m writing for my readers. I like to think I’m writing for myself, but in reality—it’s for them. I’m saying the things they want to say in a way they will understand. If they don’t get it, then it probably wasn’t meant for them anyway, right?
Moral of the story: myth busted. Turns out, you can polish a turd. And you know what? I do know shit from Shinola—and where the saying comes from.
- sugar-sprinkled shit (oreoray.wordpress.com)
- Bad Grammar Haunts My Nightmares. Seriously, I Wake Up Screaming “Oh Shit, I Wrote Your instead or You’re” (dumbfearoftheday.wordpress.com)