Wednesday, May 28, 2014

"...Humble Pie for fifty bucks and a case of beer..."

For those that know me, saying that I am headstrong is a bit of an understatement. I am stubborn, reclusive, proud, and even too honest. 

Above all of those sweet adjectives is my lack of ability to apologize - unless I am in the wrong.  If I am in the wrong, then by all means, I am sorry; However, if I did nothing offensive, then you may not want to hold your breath and wait for an apology.

Denzel Washington once said in Remember the Titans, "I don't scratch my head unless it itches, and I don't dance unless I hear some music. I will not be intimidated. That's just the way it is." And like Coach Boone, I do not apologize unless I have done something wrong.

In the last month, I have apologized three times (ugh... THREE TIMES!) for offenses that were not a fault of my own.  I cussed, a stamped my foot, I facepalmed several times, and I even growled in anger at people assuming I should do such a thing.  Apologize for something I didn't do?  What kind of world is this?  A crazy one, let me just say.

This is not to say that when someone bumps in to me I don't say "Oh, I am sorry!" because I do.  Or when my kid is in someone's way at the grocery store and I apologize for her inability to pay attention.  And these reasons are not a fault of mine, yet I will still apologize, because I am kind and it is the right thing to do.  I am overly conscious of my surroundings.

This month's monumental apologies came more or less from me eating a piece of humble pie, and sucking up the fact that people sometimes get offended by the things I say. When I am not in the wrong, this is not okay for me.  I am blunt and a bit corrosive.  I often use sarcasm to replace my ire, and apparently people are sensitive.  
I am soooooo not sensitive.  
People's every day emotions don't make sense to me and to be honest, I don't want to understand them. I do, however, understand that just because I am not affected doesn't mean that others are not affected as well.  I get it.  Which is where the pie eating came in in the first place. 

So here's to being 31 *Raises glass* and turning over (okay... like slightly lifting) some new leaves.  And putting some of my predispositions and my pride into a lawn and leaf bag, dragging them out to the curb, and letting Waste Management take them away.

Monday, May 26, 2014

Imaginary Love

I may not be the best kind of friend, or girlfriend, or fiance, or wife.  I may not be the "Mother of the Year" or the "Employee of the Month" but what I lack in those areas, I make up for in knowing exactly who I am.

I don't need a series of relationships to define me.  I don't need to prove to the world how in love I am or how my bff is better than yours.  I don't need to post endeless pictures of my perfect life to try and prove to people that I am happy.  I don't need to post status updates every five minutes that no one cares about.

The mirror would show you the mess you are, if you would walk by slowly enough to see your reflection. 
The mirror would tell you stories of your disasterous life, if you would just look at it directly instead of seeing only what you want to see.

The mirror would show you that you are not perfect and that is okay.
The mirror would tell you that your scars are what defines you.

I'd be afraid of the mirror if it told me the truth too.  
The truth I didn't want to hear.
The truth I didn't want to see.
The truth that you are made up of pretend things.
The truth that you have no substance.
The truth that you are a bad friend.
The truth that you are selfish.
The truth that you have created the world you live in on imaginary love.

The mirror would show you, if you just stopped to look, that you are a mess, just like everyone else. 
The mirror would remind you that it is okay to be a mess. What are you trying to prove anyway?
How much better you are than everyone else?
How much more you have to offer than everyone else?
You are no better than anyone else.
The 'you' in the mirror would remind you of that, but you are too afraid to look.
I would be afraid of the ugliness too.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Old Yeller

Last night, in 45 degree weather, I sat behind homeplate watching my daughter's softball team bring home a win - their second of the season.  Softball brings her this great amount of joy.  Not only does she love to see her friends a few nights a week, but she also loves learning about this game.  In years past it hasn't been like this.  She was a decent hitter, but not great in the fundamentals department.  She liked playing but it wasn't her favorite thing to do.  Lately her love of the game has been radiating from her fingertips.

For me it is quite the opposite.  This year marks my 26 years in the game; I have been playing since I was 5.  I was practically born on a diamond.  While my three older brothers played baseball, I was dragged from field to field, with a layer of dirt covering every inch of my skin, and a small bag containing Matchbox cars and a shovel. 
The ball fields have been my second home as long as I can remember.  '
And I love being there. I love eating horrible, highly-caloric foods.  I love sitting on the bleachers for so long that I can't stand up straight afterward.  I love listening to the coaches acting like this is the ALCU championship game when in fact it is a recreational league and you win a free trophy that was Made in China for .01 cent.  I love when it is 45 degrees outside, I am swathed in a blanket, yet somehow I get completely sunburned.  The sights, the attractions, the foul balls, the popcorn, the bright lights... I love all of it.  With the exception of the "playing" part.

Over the last few years, softball has become a chore instead of a love.  When it is rainy out, I become super excited that maybe my games will get cancelled.  When it is a holiday and we are off that weekend, I do mental cartwheels because I don't have to go to ball.  This is exactly how I know that I am done playing on leagues.  When it stops becoming fun there is a problem.  I suppose the same could go for realtionships, but that sounds like a topic I could blog about all on it's own.  I have just recognized the probelm early on and decided not to beat a dead horse.

I am going to retire from softball.

Not like I will get some kind of pension from it or cash out my 401K, but I will hang up my cleats and stick to watching ball and coaching my daughter - who is becoming an good little ball player.  I am proud of my daughter.  She has that spark that I seemed to have lost.

And I am okay with having lost it.  I still love the game. I love being knowledgable, rooting for the Tigers, and playing catch in the yard or hitting grounders to her in an attempt to improve her fundamentals. Even drawing maps of diamonds on computer paper and explaining to her "turning two" or why an out was forced or not.  Baseball is in my blood and I am certain it will be until I die.  My love for the game hasn't gone anywhere.

My love for playing the game, however, has been dragged out back and slaughtered.