Dating · Life

Disaster relief

Self-deprecation is totally my jam. It’s comfortable for me to joke about pratfalling through life, making fun of my adventures in the kitchen, and ridiculous dating escapades to the delight of those around me. I’ve never given it much thought in a dating context, mostly because calling myself a shitshow has not only been accepted in the past, it’s been encouraged. With the last guy I dated, I took being called a trainwreck as a compliment (it made sense in context), and honestly, I never thought of it as negative. That being said, having to do damage control when he called one of my girls a trainwreck (the first time I introduced him to my friends, because of course) was not my favourite moment.

I’ve been told my misadventures add to my charm (some have even gone so far as to call it endearing), and this has become not only how I see myself, but also how I talk about myself. I hadn’t even noticed just how often I refer to myself as crazy (or a hippie weirdo, or some other jokey teardown) until Ahab reentered the picture. He’s asked (more than once) exactly how I’m crazy, and despite my attempts to explain, he is still of the belief that I’m ‘normal.’ Just to highlight how pervasive the self deprecation is, I had to stop myself from adding in a comment about how he is mistaken. Why the fuck am I actively trying to convince a guy I like that I’m crazy? That might be the definition of insanity right there. He’s constantly saying lovely things, and my knee-jerk reaction is to tell him I’m nuts.

After years as a robot, I think perhaps what I consider crazy the rest of the world just calls ’emotions.’ Props to you guys for dealing with these this whole time without drowning them in either booze or food. Since I stopped eating my feelings (delicious, delicious feelings) and entered the realm of adult romantic interaction, I have felt a whole lotta crazy. However, I have dealt with what some might call unusual circumstances *cough understatement cough* and I’ve managed to avoid the need for a padded cell.

So maybe I’m not so crazy after all, and let’s be honest: I’m not so much of a fuckup in the kitchen anymore. I’ve come a long way from the girl who didn’t know what a clove of garlic was, even if I do end with skewer holes in my foot from making an edible arrangement. Sure, my room is more mess than floor most of the time, but I also own a business that’s really kicking ass right now. I’m never going to be good with numbers, but I can edit circles around most people (I am such a grammar gangsta I even have a fucking semicolon tattoo).

I’ve been calling myself a disaster for so long — and letting others do the same — maybe it wouldn’t hurt to listen to a second opinion. Besides, I think I can get used to ‘quirky at worst.’


4 thoughts on “Disaster relief

Comments are closed.