I am disappointed in myself
This is the part where I solicit trite, cliched platitudes from my friends and loved ones in an effort to feel better.
I can't imagine being anything or anyone other than what and who I am, but I increasingly find that what and who I am is unsatisfying. I've blogged before about women being repelled by my affinity for "Watchmen" and Thus Spoke Zarathustra. During a faculty meeting earlier this year, I made a Sun Tzu reference to my principal about how she dealt with a parent, and quickly became mortified when I realized that nobody else in the faculty knew what the hell I was talking about. After being asked about my hobbies, I have been told, "I really just don't see the appeal of board games and video game cover bands."
It's a disappointing life, being a weirdo, especially if even the slightest fraction of your self-esteem is tied to being accepted or understood by other people. Having unusual interests or looking at the world in an off-kilter way can be very isolating. It's lonely being odd.
I wrote a letter to someone recently, discussing this very matter. (The fact that I write letters is yet another anomalous trait I display. So is using words like "anomalous.") The letter read, in part:"Sometimes," I told my father about two years ago, "I wish I could be Mohammed Chen."
"Who is Mohammed Chen?" he asked.
I explained. "The most common given name in the world is Mohammed. The most common sirname in the world is Chen. So, Mohammed Chen is the the world's most common man. He fits in with people easily because he is so ordinary."
I'm a weirdo. There is no denying that this is true. The music I listen to, the books I read, the movies I watch, nobody has ever heard of them. Even among my friends, it's hard to find someone who enjoys the same activities I do. The jokes I make often require explanation. I still write letters and postcards in the age of text messaging and Facebook. It is also very telling that my attempt at conjuring the world's most common man resulted in a very unusual, highly improbable name.
It would be one thing to be so unusual if I made up for it in some way. Being eccentric is excusable from someone who is exceptionally talented, like Dali or Mozart. It's forgivable for someone wealthy and famous, like Michael Jackson or Freddie Mercury. It's even expected for a genius, like Tesla or Da Vinci. But I am none of those things. I do not delude myself into thinking that I am.
To be thoroughly average in magnitude and frightfully abnormal in flavor is a very lonely and frustrating life to live.
[portion redacted]
I have memories from back in middle school. The Dungeon, a comic book and sci-fi book store, often was frequented by these men with bushy, gray beards and messy hair who would discuss Ralph Bakshi cartoons and R. Crumb comics. I think back on them sometimes and it brings me some small comfort to know that there is at least a precedent for what I am. However, it does little to remedy my problems.
[portion redacted]
Perhaps... if I stopped playing Battletech and Chrononauts, and just went to sports bars instead, to watch hockey or somesuch. Maybe... if I stopped reading Kurt Vonnegut and Malcolm Gladwell and, well, just stopped reading, probably... [I]f I could just be normal.
I could stop doing all of those things, I suppose. I could throw out my Freakonomics books and "Hellboy" comics. Trade in my Kamelot and Tuatara CDs for, like, Kenny G or something. Turn off "Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D." and turn on "Honey Boo Boo." Just be ordinary.
Life would be much more dull, though. I would be bored with the hours I'd have to wile away being someone who isn't me. In addition, I would become much more boring as a person if I were to go for that sort of mass appeal - not to other people, mind you, but I would be very, very boring to myself. On the up side, nobody would have to shrug their shoulders when I mention operant conditioning on the job or roll their eyes when I make a pop culture reference.
The saddest part is that I cam seriously considering, three and a half decades into my oddball-ness, if it's worth it. Do I actually receive enough benefits to being... well... *ME* that I can justify the costs of being who I am?
I keep coming back to that question. Is it worth it? Is it, really?
Sell off the library... Put the game systems on eBay... Get rid of all the geek-related T-shirts... It could be done, you know.
I could stop being a weirdo...
I am forced to ponder...
If I were normal...
If I were not me...
If I were ordinary...
Betsy would not have broken up with me one year ago this June...
I don't like who I am anymore...