Feeling stonewalled again. Not by outside forces, but by the usual lack of motivation and desire to avoid responsibility that fumes within me.
At least the vestiges of depression have diminished.
In this age of defined roles in life, I still float. I always have. Some days that sensation is more palpable than others. Today may be one of those days, as I still recover from my boss' shock that I do not own an iPhone, let alone have a smart phone or data plan. Forget for a moment that the expense of both a smart phone or data plan is too much for me. To him, it's inconceivable that anyone could operate without one. And in his accusations, I'm a lesser person without one. Perhaps he did not mean it that way, as he's know to speak before thinking.
What it demonstrates to me more is the impenetrable wall of elitism and ageism. His wealth, his power produce a worldview that means he can't relate to the likes of me. I am sequestered in this out-of-synch environment where I toil in a shadow of his world. And only on those occasions when he gets a glimpse of me in that alcove does it genuinely shock him.
I suspect I'm that to most people. It's why I've forever existed on people's periphery, a good guy to know, but forgettable at best.
I fail to distinguish myself in a world crowded with bodies yearning for a spotlight of identity and respect. To be the fat guy in the cafe, to be glanced-at once, dismissed, or worse, pitied. The world has their apps to control weight, their gyms to keep in shape, their nightclubs and parties for reverie, their motivations found in the pith of a poster over their desk, their social circle that makes attractive Instagram pictures for the rest of their cast of characters to ogle and to which to aspire. Where does a dough boy like me fit into this realm?
The tragedy of this is, for some inexplicable reason, my children are still fooled. They're young enough not to judge, the world still catering to them and insisting that love is all that matters. I wish I could shield them from the truth. In time, our kids'll dig deep enough to reveal Pandora's Box and release all the demons of doubt, shame, failure which ghost its confines. One day my children will realize the failure that is their father.
I've joked that I will never be anyone's gold-digging target. I will also never be anyone's Instagram wallpost. I remember, recently, how someone took a pic with me, and then cropped me out before she posted it on Facebook. It stung. But perhaps the sting was worse because I expected she would do that. In her shoes, I would have done the same. I don't blame her for the move. In fact, I applaud it. I will remain forgettable. I am sexy, desirable, a go-getter only on the paper written by a master manipulator. It's that which causes the greater disappointment when met in person.
What picture of me do you have in your mind from my words? I'll see your image, and raise you shocking disappointment. It is that which will be cratered to my tombstone.
I would love to sit with the world's greatest philosophers throughout history and get them to analyze this. Because that perception/reality seems bullshit to me. Perceive as I may, that plate of salad will remain a salad, and not the puffy goodness of a doughnut or the warm homecoming of a fresh-from-the-oven sugar cookie.
Speaking of homecomings, my weekly castigation that is a visit to my mom's house went over as well as it normally does. This time, though, she overtly called me irresponsible. Well, I suppose she's correct. God knows, in her mind, she wonders how she could have produced such an ugly duckling, one without the benefit of ever turning into a swan, both physically and financially. That's because you adopted me, mother. You were bequeathed God's great living poster child of irony and disappointment. A garish flop.