Every once in a while, these waves of irritated disappointment wash over me, and I get really irked and frustrated.
They pass just as quickly as they come, but I can’t help but immersing myself deeply in that irate moment, wondering just exactly why there are so many people placed before me who annoy me so deeply.
That probably sounds haughty. Let me explain and I’ll allow you to be the judge.
Sometimes I just wonder about people. Their reckless driving; their endless complaining about things that they could fix themselves; their finger-pointing at nameless institutions which, while not entirely blameless in our society’s ills, are not the entire matter that is wrong with our city/state/country/world at large; their clueless obstruction of the supermarket aisles, with blank bovine faces that stare placidly at a nothing while their equally bovine asses block your way from whatever it is you are trying to reach to complete your shopping; the way they judge you in the same way, sometimes.
And the ways in which they don’t at all, but should.
Sometimes I wonder if people purposefully ignore well-meaning words of advice or carefully-researched data because their narrow view of things is so much cozier and allows them to wallow in the obtuse self-pity that cripples them completely.
Sometimes I wonder if people have any of these thoughts at all, preferring instead to just wade through their pools of sorrows blindly, not caring if they are swimming deeper and away from the shallow end, because it’s easier to keep moving and keep doing something familiar than to open their eyes and drag themselves to the far-looking shore.
Sometimes I wonder if it truly is a pool, or a desert, perhaps. Or if I am just dribblingly dramatic and entirely too harsh on people whose lives are harder and bitterer than I could ever imagine.
And sometimes I wonder if lying to yourself is easier, period. If it’s easier to look at your morbid obesity as something beautiful and to make you proud, instead of the eating disorder/potential health hazard it truly is. If it is less painful to look at your purple, repulsive striations as showcase-worthy “souvenirs” of battles with weight gain or loss or pregnancy, rather than quietly knowing that they are there and keeping them to yourself.
I really do wonder. And sometimes I turn that wonder inward.
And talk about depressing.