Who I’m Not

Sometimes this murky voice in my head tells me to get ready because things are going to get rough for awhile. A squeakier, disgruntled voice whines and says, “Like, how rough? Like, long term illness rough or like the new recipe doesn’t turn out rough?” Then, like some kind of evasive, all-knowing and all-reserving prophet- maybe a Tiresias, the voice goes away.

Matt called and said they gave the job to another candidate. I am decidedly unfunny. It would take me hours to come up with an almost-funny, mediocre, lukewarm, spit it out metaphor for car washes, and so I know that it is for the best that I not spend 60 hours a week ignoring my child so that I could bring home $270 after taxes.

Still, I cried.

Crying is not funny. People who cry about jobs they don’t really want and then don’t get are serious, not funny people.  There’s a lyric from a song I like that says “I’d rather find out who you are than find out who you aren’t,” and this is true, but sometimes who we aren’t is who we are. I’m not weird, and I’m often in a terribly suburbanite conflict with my own normalcy.  But, somehow not being accepted by the cool kids who quip and live in Chicagoan lofts and get all sorts of “likes” on their megawitty Facebook comments makes me, well, yes, a little resentful, but also a little okay. Like this: Hi, I’m Sherry. I use a slow-cooker and wear clearance name brands and buy organic shampoo, but only when it’s on sale. I’m nice to people, I like Bruce Springsteen, and I feel bad when I feel bad.

It’ll be back to posting pictures of the family in no time, but today was a day for reckoning, and this is enough for now.

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