Queen of complaints

June 11, 2013

I have become an expert complainer. A lemony smile graces my face more often than not. My philosophy of  value stemming from hard work, must have been a product of genetic engineering, like having hazel eyes and a strong jawline. Physical labor is rewarded with financial gain and “thank you” is a result of a job well done. Well, neither of those have proven to be true. Not exactly. One bad fall and two subsequent surgeries make me consider an alternative to that viewpoint. I realize I can hardly rely on my corporal work, which I swore meant toiling until my arms become numb, and I would be assured a consequential fortune. The Zen Gardener (infamous for his lack of communication skills in English,) knows for sure, that he is only paid after wrestling with the tall grass and gnarly branches. If it happens to be pouring down rain, his check is delayed until the water stops and work continues to completion. There are no sick days, no holiday paychecks.

At 53, I am discovering a life-time battle with my Self. On one side, a knight, who calmly represents confidence and intellect, the other a diminishing impatient brawn. Who wins out largely depends upon the reaction and response I perceive from my efforts. A marketing proposal, informational interview, telephone conversation regarding a job, email request for business or telepathic pleas, all generated from my end.

Depending upon the words that come back at me, I am elated, sullen, joyful, morose, accepting or disheartened. How did I catch onto that idea, like the plague, when a few of the others in the brood failed to take on those values, the certainty that I had to be physically laborious versus using my qualified brain? The parental units didn’t seem to have more time for those that plowed through a higher education nor take any interest in what I was studying. When I left college, as a Junior, a few credits short of graduation, neither my father nor mother appeared thunderstruck nor called me to have a conversation about it. They could not be bothered. Of course, that is what my combative 21 year old self declared. I suggested it didn’t matter what they, nor anyone else in my life decided about me, grabbed onto “I am on my own” as a life preserver. Indeed. What does it take to strip off the foam pack and make my way into the waves with trust, self-belief and perseverance? 

A circle of trustworthy people, occasional devoted support, shared conviction and plethora of resources would be the ticket, I believe.