People Should Be More Like Me

Every great writer has to start somewhere. Welcome to Blog Entry Number One or, Seriously? You Posted This? Really?

People are so oblivious. When a person is trying to do a nice thing, sometimes people, well they just don’t GET it. That nice person is me by the way, and sure, I’m not being obvious about my philanthropy but that’s the point, I don’t want to be so in your face about my benevolence. Let me do my charitable works quietly but come on, thank me when I’m done, is that so hard? Maybe I am just so talented and have mastered this skill of good doing that it’s undetectable and I should just relish the fact that I have a talent that is rare and brilliant. Like a rope climber effortlessly gliding up without the help of a carabiner or a gymnast pummel-horsing around with the greatest of ease, my skill is that I let people live vicariously through me and my above average sense of style and social grace. It almost comes too naturally. Those on whom I bestow this gift are mostly the elderly 40 and 50-somethings I work with in the high profile world of administrative assistance. These women, I am just sure, want to live out their youth, which was wasted by having husbands and children, through me but they don’t even have the smarts to realize it. When I talk to them during one of our three allotted daily breaks, I can’t help but offer up my condolences in the form of a detailed description of what I did last night, who I met and what I was wearing. To be quite honest I am more of a giver than a receiver and some nights I feel like I am doing this all for them. I can be exhausted from a hard day at the office but I want to have tales to regale these golden girls with and I get more pleasure out of that than actually staying out past 3 some nights, drunk off mojitos and appletinis. What really makes the day worthwhile though, is offering up something tangible, awakening the ailing senses of my ancient companions. And what better way to do that then by letting them touch my new alligator skin ankle boots? Or watching me model my assortment of Juicy tube tops in a rainbow of colors that, while they wouldn’t really go with their pallid complexions, really look great on me? I imagine that their inner monologue would go something like “Isn’t Liz quite the sassy little spitfire! Her funky clothes really have pizzazz and I wish I could pull that off. God I wish I was young again”. Of course that’s not actually vocabulary I have heard them use but it’s the way I assume a woman who of a less self-aware mind would talk about me. Sometimes though, on the very occasional rainy day and Monday, I get the feeling that these gals are not pining for their youth and that gets me down. They have the chance so they should USE me. “Let me be your vessel!” I want to shout. But my hypothetical shout falls on actual deaf ears so what’s the point? Once in a while I even imagine a worst-case scenario inner monologue, like ok, here’s the worst-case scenario: these ladies are total phonies. It goes less like “Wow, Liz looks like a winter but look how well she wears orange!” and more like “Where does Liz find the time at work to order so many things off the Internet? Shouldn’t she be working?” Maybe that’s my insecurities coming out but I swear – to find out that on top of my youth being taken for granted around here and then to realize I work with people that catty, forget it. That would be like the icing on the Prozac cake whose candles would be extinguished by my tears. Holy cow, add poetic to sense of style and social grace. I mean first look at me and now look at these lame haiku-excuses for people and tell me I’m not doing them a favor. I wouldn’t even stay around here long enough to clean out my desk. Except that I’d take down the picture of me and my boyfriend, I wouldn’t want them to get warm fuzzies anymore when they look at how in love we are, and also how young. It seriously makes me so sad to think of them being that hateful. But for real, if someone did something really nice for me, I would show my appreciation in ways other than just covering my desk when I go to sample sales or making copies for me because of my toner allergy, that’s all part of the job and why do we get paid around here anyway? Sometimes I tell myself “Liz, just take a breath, relax and understand that not everyone “gets it” and that’s okay and that’s what makes this big blue marble we’re all riding go ’round!” and then I realize that I have the nicest inner monologue of anyone I know. Seriously.

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