Sick of It

There comes a time when a guy is just sick of himself: his likes and dislikes, his habits and attitudes, the things that he does and thinks, even his tastes in food, drink, and recreational stimulants.

Today was one of those times. I’m fed up with me, even to the point of being fed up with my fed-upedness.

It’s like I’m the boring guy sitting next to me on the airplane; there I am, nattering away oblivious to the fact that I’m boring the hell out of myself as I sit there cringing at every “amusing anecdote” and “luminous insight.”

In eighth grade, I was very full of myself—the sort of kid who had an answer for everything and believed he knew all there was to know about things of which he was actually clueless.

One day, two of the girls in my class—Debbie Fiedler and Ellen Buncher if I recall correctly—flat out called me on my shit. The both let me know what a conceited little jerk I was in no uncertain terms.

I was still sufficiently convinced of my own infallibility to reject their assessment of me as they were giving it. However, that night, or soon after, when I was alone in my room, I got a momentary flash of what they were driving at and I’m sure it took something like picking on a kid who was smaller than me at school the next day to make the feeling go away.

I don’t really have that option these days; usually some beer and a bike ride are the prescription. Unfortunately, I’m even sort of sick of beer-drinking and I’m had enough of the two-wheeler after commuting home against a relentless headwind.

I suppose the good news, though, is what I alluded to above: since I’m already fed up with being sick of it all, it’s likely this mood won’t last.

Now, if something can just be done about that headwind.