It occurred to me today that I should be grateful that I live with such honest people. Otherwise, I may have gone through the rest of my life thinking that I am many things that I’m clearly not — things like competent, sane and caring. It’s a good thing I have them around to set me straight, though, I’ll tell you that!
It’s obvious to me now, thanks to their helpful, albeit unsolicited, input, that I have been a victim of my own delusional thinking for many, many years. It shouldn’t really come as a surprise, most people don’t really see themselves for who they truly are.
Apparently, I’m no exception.
You may remember how recently I was accused of being unable to determine whether the ground beef I was going to serve my husband, the still alive Fang, was, in fact, safe for human consumption. Now and then I will defer to Fang in areas where he has more expertise. Food preparation is not one of those areas. The next time I find myself in need of napping advice, I’ll defer to Fang.
I may not be that well-acquainted with the best techniques or locations to get forty winks, but I’m pretty confident that I know my way around the kitchen like nobody’s business. I don’t have to be a certified USDA meat inspector or a bacteriologist to know whether or not meat has gone “off”.
The ever-delightful Fangette, in an attempt, I suppose, to be the “typical” American teenager, recently thought it best to inform me — the woman who gave birth to her, the person who has been responsible for her care and feeding for the last seventeen years — that people simply tolerate me, are nice to me because — wait for it — they think that I’m crazy. And, as everyone knows, crazy people must be placated — humored, if you will.
So, that was nice.
One of the reasons my daughter thinks I’m crazy? Because I don’t care about people.
Trying to explain to an adolescent how there is a world of difference between giving a rat’s ass about what the neighbors are getting up to or, for that matter, The Kardashians, is not the same as feeling sorry for victims of flood or famine is an exercise in futility that I have no patience for. I would argue that I can muster up all sorts of sympathy for folks who find themselves in the latter category. I would agree to having little to no interest in the former.
I suppose I’ll just have to remain incompetent, crazy, and uncaring. It seems that in order to be thought otherwise up in this joint I’ll have to take up things like deferring to my husband, throwing away perfectly good food, polling my friends regarding why they seek out the company of a deranged person, and/or take up snooping and reality television viewing.
Yeah, I’m probably not going to be doing any of that.