I am once again reminded how the shallow puddle of angst I live with is ridiculous next to the deep wells of angst that so many of those close to me experience in their lives. Read the passionate post by my friend Halfway Between if you think I am making this up.
What do I have to complain about here? My clothes don’t fit — uncomfortable, but hardly a life-shaking crisis. What is at stake? Precious little. I don’t like shopping for clothes. Well, no, that’s not true. I love shopping for clothes; I just can’t get over what they cost. I didn’t have to worry about this until I was out of college. My mother always took me shopping to get what I needed, and I wasn’t terribly fussy (or fashionable) so cheap always did me just fine.
Now of course I have expensive tastes (in theory) but still can’t get my head around spending thirty dollars (American) for a pair of jeans. And yes, I know that’s cheap (in theory) but I can’t seem to accept the fact in practice. Hence my inability to own more than one pair of casual pants (that fit) at any given moment.
I have led — for all my dramatising to the contrary — a rather charmed life. I have not battled disease of body or mind or soul. I have not suffered any severe personal injury. I have not lost loved ones to death. I have just strolled along, never really growing up, never really taking responsibility for my life. Yet I imagine myself living a life that is full of pain and depth. Sometimes I think the only pain in my life is me: a pain in everyone else’s arse.
But anyway, I felt shallow today. I don’t know if I really am, but I shall strive not to be.