I just finished up my morning scan of social media and I recorded two short snap chats using new filters I found trending. It’s just past 7am and I find myself with nothing else to do right now. Oh oh… That means I can think about things, and that’s not always a good plan.
It occurred to me that my wife doesn’t have a lot of substance day to day that is worthy of remembering. It’s why I always seem surprised when I discover it’s Friday again. There are not many events happening to fill out the memories of each day into stories.
I create videos trying to figure out a new way to make the unbelievably routine task of counting 12 cows in a field somehow feel uniquely different than it was yesterday. The content is repetitive so I attempt to make the story telling more interesting.
It’s getting harder and this will inevitably lead to me feeling like I’m failing at it. I don’t like the feeling I’m letting the viewer down and so I will probably stop. I start down the usual path of sabotage inside my head. Is anything I do worth doing if it’s not making somebody smile? It’s almost never about what makes me smile.
There were two thoughts that I took away from my first sessions with a social worker counselor when I was 50. When I was asked what made me happy, I gave the answer; making other people happy. I was told that was wrong and I needed to figure out an answer about what made me happy.
I still want to argue my point and use dozens of examples of people who make it the major backbone of their happiness. I don’t think getting Joy from the joy of others is wrong. I think people-pleasing can be selfish but I don’t believe it’s inherently wrong. I feel the smiles I help generate and that feeling tops any other pleasures I can think of.
If I’m doing anything in my life and I’m alone for it, I don’t remember it. My life is better shared and I stand by that. If you don’t like what I’m offering, I will try something else. I don’t do much that is for me. In this way, I feel an obligation to be amusing or entertaining. I take your happiness as my responsibility even in situations where it clearly shouldn’t be.
That’s a hard thing to change when you reach my age and can’t come up with a list of 5 things I enjoy that don’t involve somebody else. Society isn’t a fan of listing mindless TV watching as a hobby.
Blogging is a weird exception. I do it for myself and I do enjoy it, but in a very strange combination of emotions, I feel pride in the quality of my thoughts and sentences but I sincerely seek praise to validate whether my pride is justified. Simultaneously I am terrified to share my work on the off chance my delusions of grandeur are exposed. I don’t want to learn my writing is not as good as I imagine it to be inside my head. I don’t want to appear egotistical in any way.
I’d rather think it would be appreciated than learn it’s just average, or worse. At the same time I understand how bizarre that paradox is but it is safe. My blog is my safe space where I simultaneously want fame and failure.
And then when I do share as I have been doing more and more recently, the silence is deafening. Like doing a stand-up comedy routine on an empty stage except I know it’s not empty and I can see the theater filled with people talking to each other. I am not special. I never was. It’s worse. I don’t want people laughing at me for the wrong reason.
This is what happens when I have 15 minutes of spare time in the morning. I’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen again tomorrow.
