Judskii

Choose amazing.

Tag: rant

For the sake of (blog)life, (blog)love, and (blog)laughter.

Sometimes I lose sight of why I started blogging in the first place. It wasn’t because I wanted free stuff. It wasn’t because I wanted to be famous. It was because I have these thoughts and feelings and life mottos that I wanted to share with the world. Thinking back to the first blog I ever had, I wrote because I wanted to get a handle on my thoughts. It was like writing to a pen-pal that I knew didn’t actually exist, but it was nice to get everything out of my head and into a physical, or rather digital, form.

Somewhere between 2009 and 2015, I became consumed with the lives all these bigger bloggers. Thousands of readers and followers, invites to exclusive events, free perks from companies who want you to write about their products. It’s like being a celebrity with all the perks and you are your own paparazzi.

I’ll let you know what prompted this post though. A few weeks ago, I met a prominent local blogger at a party (who will now be referred to as Z) with other bloggers much bigger than I am. Z came into the circle of conversation, and in the introductions, I shook Z’s hand, and said that I was familiar with their social media content. I received half a handshake, and no eye contact as Z gave a weak laugh and looked away to someone they recognized as being “in the scene,” as I interpreted it. This is fine. I don’t mind. I’m just there to have fun and make friends. My ego isn’t bruised if someone doesn’t give me the time of day.

Flash forward to the next week, I’m working at my retail job and Z walks in. I give a big friendly, “Hey!”, and it’s clear Z doesn’t recognize me. Again, that’s fine. Even though I shook your hand, that’s fine. However, what spurned me is that Z did not say a single word during the transaction. No answer to “How are you?” Just flashed the credit card and snatched the bag of goods and left.

I don’t think it’s just a “I’m a big deal” thing, but it should be common decency to treat the people behind the check out as a human.

I don’t know where I was going with this. I never would have batted an eye at any of these things individually, but being brushed off by the same person in the span of a week, that stings a little. But I’m sure Z is a very nice person, and I just don’t make a very big impression. I’m working on accepting the fact that it’s ok not to be noticed, and trying to reconcile the thought of, maybe I don’t want to be noticed. I just want to live my life in a way that makes me happy, and use my energy in ways that make other people feel happy. Going back to my roots of writing for the sake of writing. Sharing my thoughts with the digital world that might have a person or two out there listening. Not for free things and invites to events where people try so hard to make you like them so that you’ll advertise their product, but to surround myself with good people and good vibes.

Of course, I’ll find a relevant Nicki Minaj quote.

Let me make this clear, I’m not difficult, I’m just ’bout my business. I’m not into fake industry parties and fake agendas. Rock with people for how they make me feel, not what they give me.

I’d be lying if I said that the free stuff isn’t nice. That the feeling of inclusivity with the exclusive clubs makes you feel important and like you really are somebody. But I don’t want to always be chasing the glamour and events for the sake of the glamour and events. I want to do it for the experiences of trying something new and for meeting new people that can possibly add love and laughter into my life.

If I can live my life with purpose and positively impact just one person, then I can be happy. I want to leave impressions of positivity on others, like pressed-leaf impressions in a textbook.

Growing Older

What follows is a pretty long-ish story I read on Reddit made by user Kylearm. It’s a very interesting story, but don’t read it if you don’t want to cry. Actually, skip this entire post if you don’t want to be depressed at all.

“One day after filling up my car with gas, I went inside to pick up some snacks for the long drive to my hometown. As I was heading in, I saw an elderly couple. They were both very old and kind of unkempt, but the husband was so loving and careful as he wheeled his frail wife in her wheelchair up the handicapped ramp, turned her around so her back was to the store, and parked her by the door. He said “You wait here, honey. I’ll go get your ice cream,” and went inside, kind of bent over, but spry nonetheless.

When I got into the store, there was a middle aged guy who seemed to be old friends with the woman behind the counter, probably the owner or manager. He was teasing her and they were laughing. As I got in line to pay for my M&Ms, he said his farewell and went out the door. The woman greeted the next customer.

Suddenly the middle-aged man came back in and said, deadpan, “Call the ambulance.”

“Oh you!”–the woman exclaimed, thinking he was still kidding.

“No,” he replied, absolutely calm, but clearly focused, “I really mean it. An old lady has fallen down out here.”

The woman grabbed the phone. The old man bleated “Honey!” and ran out the door, drumstick ice cream in hand. I put my M&Ms back and went outside to see if I could help.

There was the old lady, face-down under her wheelchair in a small pool of blood. The middle-aged man, who was quite large and brawny, carefully pulled the chair off of her. She was moaning. The husband was in an absolute panic, crying, “Honey! Honey!” and trying to help, but he was too weak. As I neared the scene, I noticed the smell. This lady had not been bathed in a very long time.

The man carefully rolled her over. She had a large tear on her forehead and a swelling, purple, bleeding upper lip. The entire right side of her face was full of gas-station-parking-lot dirt. Black. Her husband kept saying “It’s alright, you’re alright, it’s okay,” but the woman only sobbed back. An empty, senseless, language-less sob.

The husband looked down at the ice cream in his hand, and suddenly, furiously tore it open. He held it up for her. “Look, honey, I got your ice cream. See? It’s alright. Have your ice cream,” he said, weakly touching it to her filthy, bloodied lips. One of the customers gently pulled his hand away and said, “She can’t have it now; let’s wait for the ambulance to arrive.” He looked ashamed as he set the ice cream down on the pavement.

The hospital was just down the street, and the ambulance arrived very shortly. The EMTs got her on a stretcher, and with every movement, she groaned louder. No words, just sounds.

They began asking if anyone had seen what had happened. The middle-aged man said that he saw her just roll off the curb and flip face down onto the parking lot.

“Who left her there?” the EMT demanded.

“I did! I was getting her ice cream!” the husband yelped.

“Didn’t you put the brake on?”

A moment of horrible realization passed over his face, then he plead, “Yes! I… Yes! I think so… I think I did.”

The EMT nodded knowingly to one of his partners and they set about getting the old woman into the ambulance. As they did, the old man was in a whirlwind of confusion, trying to be strong for his beloved wife, but beginning to cry himself, seeming to be at his wits’ end as he was helped into the back of the ambulance.

After they had left and the scene calmed, it dawned on me why he was in such a panic. It wasn’t just how much he loved her, or the fall, or the blood, or even that it was his fault. It was that this was the end of their life together. He’d been doing his best to keep his wife, so old, so frail, at his side, to care for her, to be with her always. Maybe he wasn’t strong enough to help her bathe, maybe her diapers didn’t quite fit right, but they were together. He was passing. Just barely, but passing.

And now, with this one little mistake, this one little goof, this one little slip of the aging mind, it was all over.

The hospital staff would be concerned about her hygiene; people would be round the house to judge whether he was capable of caring for her; competency would be questioned, and the decision would not be in his favor. He’d be going home alone to that house tonight, and every night from now on. It was over, all over, and it was his fault.

I reached down and picked up the melting drumstick, holding it gingerly as I walked to the trash can, threw it in, and went back into the store to buy my M&Ms.”

Let’s take a second to let it all out. I probably share this fear with quite a bit of people out there, but I’m afraid of growing older. I’m afraid of being unable to care for myself. Unable to complete the simplest of tasks because I’m too weak. I’m afraid of outliving my loved ones, of losing my parents. I’m afraid of getting old and realizing that I haven’t done half of the things that I promised myself I’d do, that I haven’t done anything with my life. I’m afraid that I’ll die before my husband, as selfish as that sounds. I’m afraid that I’ll die alone. I’m afraid that my mind will deteriorate to the point where I don’t lucidly remember the life I would have led. I want to die before all that happens, but I wouldn’t want to leave my children. There’s loss in each choice, and I guess I’m not the one to make the choice about when I go. I can only hope to live a fulfilling, satisfying, meaningful life with laughter, love, arts, happiness, and all that wonderful stuff.

I want to find love like that.

Though, however long I sit here thinking about what I want out of life, I guess I should plan for the future. Take initiative. Make my life what I want it to be. Not just me, but you too. Stop taking the shit life deals you, don’t just sit there. You can either wallow in shit, or use it as fertilizer. Be the change you want to see (in the world). Turn over a new leaf. Another long string of clichés. Tldr; fuck all of this. I can be afraid of getting old and not accomplishing anything, but instead, I’ll tackle it head on, and maybe I’ll get old and at least accomplish something.

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