Suburban Oblivion recently complained that her two year old had been replaced by demon spawn. She welcomed any interest in buying him on eBay.
As luck would have it, someone took her up on the offer. Someone that apparently can not have children. Sara responded with an exercise in gratitude, expressing that it sometimes takes getting bitch-slapped in the comments to remember how good you have it.
What followed was a discussion in Suburban Oblivion's comments that touched on a topic that I take very personally. The topic of gratitude and our right to be ungrateful some days. This is something that I've been meaning to write about for some time, but always back down. Sara is a great fire-starter, so here goes.
In response to Sara's post on gratitude, CharmingBitch said that "some days off-handed comments about selling children hurt worse than
other days. Just like most days with your kids are great but some suck..." I'm paraphrasing. Apparently, some of Sara's readers took part of CharmingBitch's comment to suggest that she wanted Sara to be a man and stop complaining. Again, paraphrasing. Actually, that's conjecture. Nevertheless, CharmingBitch was inundated with emails telling her that Sara has a right to complain about a bad day and to back off.
You've got to be kidding me.
To paraphrase my own comment left on Suburban Oblivion: of all people, CharmingBitch knows that playing the "who has the worse life?" game is pointless. More specifically, the “I have no right to complain because your life is worse than mine” game is ridiculous.
Bad days are bad days.
The hierarchy of bad is irrelevant.
CharmingBitch further responded (this was before my comment, by the way):
"I never said Sara (or anyone else for that matter) doesn’t have the
right to complain or vent about a bad day. I know that one life cannot
compare to another and that we all have our own crosses to bear; I get
that, honestly."
Amen. I have a right to complain about my house washing away. I also have a right to complain about my car looking like a ghetto-fabulous poop heap. It's all relevant because it is all me.
My problems can not compare to yours, but they are mine.
Do you read CharmingBitch? Let me tell you, my problems could never compare to hers, and yet I don't hesitate to share my problems with her. Why not? She never tries to "one up" me in the problems game. She could always win, but homey don't play dat.
After Hurricane Katrina, there developed something of a hierarchy of suffering along the Gulf Coast:
- You lost the bottom floor of your house? I lost my whole house.
- You lost your whole house? I lost my house and my job.
- You lost your house and your job? I lost my sister.
- You lost your sister? I lost my whole family.
- You lost your whole family? I am dead.
That's right, the ghosts of the dead walk the streets of the Gulf Coast. Their presence is always there, reminding us that it could be worse. We could be dead.
Bullshit.
Your life could always be worse. Someone will always have it worse than you. Seriously. But does that mean that we have no right to complain about the mundane? Hell no.
I'll complain about our Bar exam woes and the fact that I haven't had a manicure in forever... all within the same breath. Because they are my problems. They are important to me. Screw you if you don't think I am grateful enough to keep them in perspective. Your insinuating that I am not keeping my problems in perspective is an insult. Your suggesting that I am not grateful is an outrage.
I got gratitude for you right here. Bend over, let me show you.
The next time someone tells you, "Well, it could be worse..." just slap them for me. What they are saying is that they have no idea what to tell you, you are making them uncomfortable, and they would like to deflect the conversation and preferably end it right there.
"Our bills are killing me. I don't know where I expect to get the money this month."
"Really? Well, it could be worse. Your child could have an incurable flesh-eating disease and be deathly allergic to painkillers."
Wha-what? Um, yeah, you're right... I don't know... I mean, I just... Uh, okay, I, uh, well... Okay.
Conversation killed. Now let's talk about how your mother-in-law insulted your housekeeping, because that is important.
Look, our problems are our problems. We own them. They are ours. I'm not trying to beat you in the competition for who has the worse life. In the end, if you win, what have you won, anyway? Hey, I'll just give you that one. Congratulations. Your life sucks.
Now I'm still going to talk about how my diamond shoes are too tight. Because they are and I don't like blisters. So sue me.
I am grateful for everything and everyone that I have in my life. I know how good I have it. But damn it if I have to couch every single fookin' thing that irks me with "I know it could be worse but..." Hell. No.
The other day, I guest posted over at moosh in indy and dared to complain about how being the wife of a young lawyer sucks. Ass. A big hairy ass. I said that I'm sick of my life being about my husband and had the balls to ask, "When is it going to be about me?"
I then demanded a Volvo wagon, an annual spa vacation, and a housekeeper.
Oh yes I did.
And you know what? I'm going to complain freely when my Volvo breaks down. I'm going to whine when my massages aren't deep enough. And I'm going to bitch when my housekeeper doesn't scrub my toilets the way I like it.
I don't expect you to care. But I do expect you to listen. Because if you love me, you know me. You know that I am grateful and you know that I am not a raving idiot that has no perspective. You know that I know what is important.
And yet you will still let me vent about the small stuff.
Because if you don't let me vent about the small stuff, I will utterly blow my lid when it comes time to deal with the big stuff.
Get it?
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