Yesterday, I ate two and a half donuts and one fudgesicle.
Naturally, I rewarded my responsible dietary choices with a healthy dose of self-loathing.
Between trying to calculate the number of calories in all the sugar consumed, I went down all those dark, dangerous, dusty mind roads you're never supposed to go down. It was hot, my dog was asleep, and my global diaspora book was boring. Not even my subversive stitching could keep my demons at bay. Those little buggers came out guns ablazin'. So I caved and dove into that deceptively cool, refreshing pool of self-pity for a good old fashioned wallowing.
I was in there for a while before my fingers got all pruney and the satisfaction of feeling sorry for myself wore off. But the effects of my pity party lasted long into the evening and even rubbed off onto my poor innocent Rob who woke up at the butt crack of dawn to teach seminary and sure as hell doesn't deserve to put up with any of my nonsense. I know, right? With a guy like that coming home to me every night, how can I ever feel bad about myself? I'll tell you. Crippling anxiety and genetically low self-esteem, that's how. (Uh-oh...this just got real, didn't it? Sorry about that.)
Dr. Rob diagnosed a comparing problem; I compare the very worst of myself to the very best of everyone else. His prescription is that I lay off the damn Internet for once in my life already. That way I won't be able to see pictures of all the beautiful homes and children and clothes and hair and lives of my impossibly gorgeous, talented, and well-off Internet friends. It's a bad habit, he says, to sit on one's crumb-covered futon, trouserless and greasy-haired, and admire the visually stunning facebook/blog/instagram posts of my cyber friends. They have fancy cameras, he says. Their husbands make living wages, he says. But I know better.
Here's the truth: you, my friends, are exceptionally beautiful people. Your wardrobes are exquisite, your homes are stylish, your children are attractive, your hobbies are lucrative, and your grass! Your grass so green! It glows in the night like a neon liquor store sign! I don't even have grass. I have concrete and a tree stump that I share with my upstairs neighbor. Unlike salon.com, I don't doubt the veracity of your shiny lives because I know where the other half lives. The unwashed, unorganized, childless, fast-food loving, sailor mouth-having, no pants-wearing half. My house. Which is actually an apartment, and about a fraction of the size of what I assume is your palatial personal Versailleses. Am I right? Of course I'm right.
I guess what this means is, I need a break. For a day or two...or until I get bored. Not from you, per se. Just from the Internet yous. I need to close up shop and take a thorough inventory of my blessings and all (which I won't tell you about just in case there's another me out there, sitting in her underwear atop a pile of crumbs on an even smaller, more unwieldy futon). And I'm not coming back until I feel sorry for everyone who isn't me.
...is what I would say to you if you weren't all such nauseatingly awesome winners.