So I’ve moved again, and I’m still right back where I started from. This is probably going to be heavier thinking than I usually try to force on anybody, so my apologies in advance.
When I was a kid, all I ever did was dream about going Away. I wanted to move to some foreign country and do…something. (I was a kid. What do you want? A twenty year career plan?) I’ve never wanted to be anything in particular when I grew up. Okay, that’s a lie. I decided that I wanted to work in a foreign embassy. Yes, I was even that big of an egghead back in third grade. When I got older, I was discouraged from that path over something incredibly stupid and trivial, but I’ve never been brimming with self-confidence, so I’ve always taken criticism to heart much more than I should (less so these days, thank god).
I went off to college in Ann Arbor without any direction. I had plenty of potential, but I’d never had anyone guide me in anything. My parents pretty much let us do whatever we wanted as long as we stayed out of trouble. Given the fact that I got obnoxiously good grades and was even more obnoxiously well-behaved, I pretty much had free reign. When I was in high school, I foolishly went to the guidance counselor to ask for, well, guidance. I say that was foolish because I found out quickly that high school guidance counselors are not really well relied upon for any kind of guidance whatsoever. I ask for help only grudgingly (UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE CENTURY), and to be given none when I ask for it really burns. So I just kind of meandered into college and took courses I was interested in, but had no idea what practical use they would be for me. Ideally, that wouldn’t matter. That’s exactly what I think education should be, for the sake of learning things, not for figuring out how much money you can make after learning whatever it is you are learning. I eventually left school without a degree, moved back home, worked for less than minimum wage at a job I absolutely loved, but my family drove me absolutely crazy. Luckily, I was offered a couch in lovely Southern California, and I hopped at the chance to make a clean break.
It was great out there, until it wasn’t. So I moved back and felt like a failure because I wasn’t supposed to come back here, right? There’s some unspoken rule about how living in the town you grew up in means that you’re a failure.
Now, I’ve failed at a lot of things in my life (spectacularly, in some cases), but I’ve succeeded in a hell of a lot more, and in things that are more important than how much money I’m making or how cool someone thinks I am because of my job. Sure, I get paid shitty (shitty, shitty, shitty) (shitty) wages, and my job does not require me to do anything that taxes my brain at any time, but I live in one of the most beautiful places on god’s green earth, and I get by. Why am I supposed to be ashamed of that?
A few people have put a smile on my face with nice comments (here and at the other journal) and emails today, so I am not even dreading getting down on my hands and knees (Get your mind OUT OF THE GUTTER this instant, Ron!) to scrub the bathroom floor in a minute here.
I promise I’ll be more entertaining in the next post. As I told a good friend on the phone last night, my life is like a romantic comedy, except without the romance. And the comedy a good part of the time. But with a whole bunch of the crazy mixed-up mishaps. Usually the kind of a physical nature. So, I guess be ready for all of the stories of my stubbed-toe misfortune?
Heeeeey, that sounds like a new blog title. If I don’t go with “Marshmallow Scars” instead. Which I do have. See? Pratfalls galore. It’s too bad I wasn’t born about a hundred years ago, and a man, so I could have grown up to become one of the revolving substitute members of The Three Stooges AKA a Fake Shemp (tm Bruce Campbell).
