Stalling Head Over Heels
I just posted an Advice Goddess column about a guy whose dad has health problems -- which the guy uses as his excuse for weeniehood. Here's an excerpt:
It’s a good thing other species aren’t evolved enough to be as counterproductive as we are, or the food chain would empty out in about a decade. Come on, do you think a male deer on the make sniffs doe pee on a branch, and says to himself, “Naw, Ma’s been having a bit of the mange lately, I think I’ll take seven-year mating sabbatical”?So, your family tree has a bit of bark rot. Join the club. The essence of being human is being something of a screwup. Everybody’s got problems. Smart people view them as opportunities for growth (see The Consolations of Philosophy by Alain de Botton). Others, such as yourself, prefer to repurpose them into excuses for acting like a wuss: “I can’t ask you out -- it’s too hot, it’s too cold, Daddy’s too poor, Daddy has a goiter named Fred.” Well, unless Fred’ll be joining you on your dates, and Daddy, too, in a wheelchair and leashed to his breathing machine…what’s it to you?
Then again, humiliation has excellent entertainment value. Nobody bonds with you over tales of your greatness. People want to hear about how human you are. They want to know about that time you were so poor you had to dress up as a chicken, clucking as you handed flyers to pedestrians; or rather, as you chased pedestrians, trying to hand them flyers so you could get paid before you died of heat exhaustion.
There is, however, a difference between serving up a splash of self-deprecation -- suggesting you have confidence to spare -- and inviting others to look on as you drown yourself in a bottomless vat of self-perceived loserhood. Extricating yourself from that vat could take years of therapy and a forest of motivational Post-it Notes -- reminding you not only to replace the refrigerator bulb, but to like yourself intensely while doing it. Or, you could just stuff a set of walnuts in your underwear (the faint clacking will remind you they’re there -- if the discomfort or a band of rabid squirrels doesn’t get you first)…and go out in the world and hit on girls.
The rest is here. P.S. That was me in the chicken suit.
Daddy has a goiter named Fred.
That'll stick with me for decades... brilliant!
eric at April 14, 2006 3:09 PM
Awww, thanks. I got a bunch of mail on that one. Warms the cockles of my little atheist lump of coal for a heart.
Amy Alkon at April 14, 2006 3:52 PM
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