thoughts for an insomiac

This is what I want to know:

At what point in my life will I stop comparing me to others I perceive as better, in some way, than myself? And I don’t mean that I am having an attack of low self-esteem; in fact, the older I get the less that seems to be a problem, which is great, and one of the reasons why you couldn’t pay me enough to go back to being a teenager, or even an early twenty something. I just mean that there always seems to be a level of something that I want to reach, but didn’t know I hadn’t or even wanted to.

For instance, when will I be as witty as the characters in the movies or books I read? Actually, I think it goes deeper than that. I think about the author of some of the stupid romance novels I can’t seem to kick the habit of, and I wonder, who does this? Who can sit and create not only a plot, and characters with their own personalities, but also their conversations, their idiosyncrasies, their thoughts? And we’re not talking Moby Dick here; we’re talking cheap, write five in a year, run-of-the-mill novels. The only time I can imagine conversations like that is when I am really mad and have time to think about what I would say, how I would say it; then usually I have to scrap my well-rehearsed diatribe because it would be less than profitable if I went with it.

I rarely have a quick retort or droll comeback. I feel as deep as…jeez, this is what I’m talking about. I actually Googled “as deep as” because I couldn’t think of an amusing simile, then I Googled the difference between metaphors, analogies, and similes, to make sure I had the right word. I can’t even come up with my own similes!?! Holy Moly.

(FYI, a simile is a type of metaphor, which is different from an analogy. In case you suddenly find yourself of Jeopardy or something.)

It doesn’t help that the only people who think I’m funny or witty are the females on my mom’s side, and maybe my uncle. Of course my mom thinks I’m hilarious, but then I am an only child and she’s easily amused (you know it’s true, mom). So while I could just take the ego boost and run with it, eventually I have to fess up to the fact that the audience is biased.

It also doesn’t help that I am married to a man who was first in line for Brains, Wit: Its Use and Effective Delivery, Logic, Self-control, and pretty much every other virtue they were handing out. I was probably distracted by something shiny and all I had time for was Tools of Procrastination, How to Work Less and Eat More, Napping, and Klutz: a Step by Step Guide to First Aid- You’re Gonna Need It. There’s not even a competition. Which makes me wonder why do I feel like there needs to be a competition? Can’t I just be happy I have such an amazing, if humbling, husband, and bask in the glow of his brilliance?

If, on the rare occasion, I actually say something that makes my husband laugh, he says “that’s going in your top ten.” But there is no top ten. If we actually wrote them down, you’d see a list with only two lines filled out, because if there are more we can’t remember them, so they must not have been that great to begin with, right?

It’s not just about being funny or witty. I have come to realize I have no sense of style. I will admit that it’s difficult when 99% of the clothes out there show way too much skin to be modest, or are just plain uncomfortable. But I’ve only got a few more years before I’m stuck with the mommy-jeans and shirts with perpetual spit up stains. I want Jennifer Anniston/that mom from “19 and counting,” but I will probably end up with woman who finds joy at the bottom of the Salvation Army bargain bin (FYI: I’m already finding joy at the bottom of the Salvation Army bargain bin). Sigh….

Even when I have an opportunity to be proud of something, it usually only works to make me feel worse that something so mediocre could make me feel accomplished. I replaced our bedroom door knob the other night. I went to Home Depot, picked it out (it was the most simple looking one), removed the old one and by comparing the old and new, installed the new one. And I only locked myself in once.

Why should this cause me to surge with pride? Why should I beam when a new recipe I try comes out OK? Or want to jump for joy when I finally figured out how to come up from the subway station and not be totally disoriented? Or when I take and edit a photo that has probably been done a thousand times over by someone who actually knows what they’re doing?

I don’t know where I am going with all of this. I am not discontent, not unhappy.

I don’t have a witty ending for this one. Just going to send this out into the void and ponder.

Have a good night.