am I a jolly good fellow?
Nov. 23rd, 2008 03:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself.
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)"
- Walt Whitman
This year's birthday tally: five phone calls, three cards, one e-card, one e-mail and one toast. Thanks to everyone who remembered. And thanks to everyone who forgot, too. Hey, times are tough, folks are busy, I understand.
Birthdays have never been a whole lot of fun for me. Even when I was a kid, because my birthdays commonly fell on Thanksgiving weekend, parties were difficult to organize. When I was in college, my teetotaling nature prevented me from indulging in typical celebration. By the time I reached young adulthood, whatever reveling I was able to muster was tempered by the existential pitfalls of aging.
But I have always enjoyed the attention. I like the cards and the phone calls and the gifts, but I mostly love the idea that people are actually thinking about me. Admitting this is a little embarassing -- and a little paradoxical.
This seems to reveal a very basic contradiction in my personality. I have always deeply craved attention, but at the same time, I've always been unreasonably fussy about how I receive it.
Much of my life has been marked by activity that blatantly announces, "hey everyone, look at me!" Academic toadyism, choir-and-drama club geekery, ambitious college journalism and numerous self-indulgent Web sites. The original iteration of this journal featured the tagline, "where shameful self-loathing meets shameless self-promotion."
But then again, I find myself so guarded against flamboyance or arrogance that I am reluctant to truly market myself. Instead, I passive-agressively rely on good word-of-mouth. Which ultimately makes things worse, because when I don't feel like I'm getting enough recognition, all I can do is stew in my own anonymously righteous self-pity.
All but the very best and very worst among us are ultimately defined by our contradictions. The devoted mother who medicates herself to manage the stress and self-doubt; the embattled soldier who takes lives to save lives; the gifted writer who sacrifices reality for the imaginary.
Maybe this is my contradiction. Maybe I'm the guy who needs love and attention but is uncomfortable asking for it. One could argue that this stubborn pride is what fuels my own creativity, such as it is, because I feel like I need to be twice as funny or interesting just to make sure people keep coming back.
In that way, I'm sort of thankful that my birthday so often overlaps with Thanksgiving. For those people who simply need a little reminder, the holiday season serves as a gentle nudge. And for those who forget entirely, it serves as a reasonable excuse.
Very well then I contradict myself.
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)"
- Walt Whitman
This year's birthday tally: five phone calls, three cards, one e-card, one e-mail and one toast. Thanks to everyone who remembered. And thanks to everyone who forgot, too. Hey, times are tough, folks are busy, I understand.
Birthdays have never been a whole lot of fun for me. Even when I was a kid, because my birthdays commonly fell on Thanksgiving weekend, parties were difficult to organize. When I was in college, my teetotaling nature prevented me from indulging in typical celebration. By the time I reached young adulthood, whatever reveling I was able to muster was tempered by the existential pitfalls of aging.
But I have always enjoyed the attention. I like the cards and the phone calls and the gifts, but I mostly love the idea that people are actually thinking about me. Admitting this is a little embarassing -- and a little paradoxical.
This seems to reveal a very basic contradiction in my personality. I have always deeply craved attention, but at the same time, I've always been unreasonably fussy about how I receive it.
Much of my life has been marked by activity that blatantly announces, "hey everyone, look at me!" Academic toadyism, choir-and-drama club geekery, ambitious college journalism and numerous self-indulgent Web sites. The original iteration of this journal featured the tagline, "where shameful self-loathing meets shameless self-promotion."
But then again, I find myself so guarded against flamboyance or arrogance that I am reluctant to truly market myself. Instead, I passive-agressively rely on good word-of-mouth. Which ultimately makes things worse, because when I don't feel like I'm getting enough recognition, all I can do is stew in my own anonymously righteous self-pity.
All but the very best and very worst among us are ultimately defined by our contradictions. The devoted mother who medicates herself to manage the stress and self-doubt; the embattled soldier who takes lives to save lives; the gifted writer who sacrifices reality for the imaginary.
Maybe this is my contradiction. Maybe I'm the guy who needs love and attention but is uncomfortable asking for it. One could argue that this stubborn pride is what fuels my own creativity, such as it is, because I feel like I need to be twice as funny or interesting just to make sure people keep coming back.
In that way, I'm sort of thankful that my birthday so often overlaps with Thanksgiving. For those people who simply need a little reminder, the holiday season serves as a gentle nudge. And for those who forget entirely, it serves as a reasonable excuse.
