The truth:
I’m sarcastic. I cannot hide from my big mouth, because it’s always there, babbling on, saying the wrong thing in the wrong tone. I’m a very nice, encouraging person — even my roommate would say so (I hope!) — but I’m also really, really sarcastic.
And I’ve got a temper. A bona fide, door-slamming, growling, phone-whacking, eye-narrowing, steam-out-of-the-top-of-my-head temper. It really only manifests itself with the opposite sex, and my mother, as odd as that may seem.But — and this is key — I’m not jaded. And I’ve decided: I hate jaded.
Some people are culturally jaded, as the ugly result of having an overwhelming amount of stimulus all-too-available for their perusal. Some people are locationally jaded, having ‘been there’ and ‘done that’ and ‘been rescued by the embassy’ once too often. Some people are emotionally jaded, because they’ve either witnessed, dealt with or created such a beehive of drama in their lives that nothing really seems shocking anymore.
And some people are jaded for no good reason at all. Perhaps they’re bored. Perhaps they think they appear hip, feigning disinterest like housecats. Some of them may secretly be dead.
But I think they’re just brats.
Whatever your impetus might be, you need to cut it with the eye-rolling and dejected sighs. Stop ruining things for the rest of us, just because you’ve decided that your best coping mechanism is to emotionally absent yourself from every last potential speck of enjoyment available on this planet.
No matter what you’ve been through or where you’ve been or what you’ve seen, there is always something else out there, for better or for worse, that could touch you, if you let it. There are death camp survivors who still weep at sunrises and well-written words, despite the nightmares they’ve lived. I’ve known dying children who lost themselves in music and took unabashed delight in swimming pools.
I know people who have been to most of the countries on our big, blue-green earth, but still appreciate a square of scrubby flora in the midst of the city. And I know chefs who have tasted heaven on a spoon and still marvel at a good batch of mac n’ cheese.
Stop waiting for life to impress you and offering arguments for why it just doesn’t grab you anymore. Stop putting on a set jaw when you know someone hopes for a smile. Stop viewing the pain of others with an ironic, knowing smirk, when you know that your callous response will just break them the same way you’ve been broken.
Invest your heart regardless of the dividend, because the ability to feel is possibly the only inalienable right you possess.
I’m not asking for a benign smile — in fact, benign is just another form of jaded. I’m asking you to get angry, if that is what you feel, and to deal with your hurt head-on. I’m asking you to speak truth, if it’s sitting there at the tip of your tongue, praying to be set free.
If you have to cry, cry. If you want to grin, grin. If you like the song, who cares what your friends think? Dance to it. If it hurts you, say so. If it confuses you, ask a question. If it’s beautiful, don’t be afraid to gasp. If it tastes good, close your eyes and mmm…
All the ironic detachment in the world will never be half as amazing as a single falling leaf or a bonfire or a good, hot cup of coffee.
Call me naive, but think twice before you do. It’s the ultimate arrogance to assume that your experiences have given you more cause than mine, or anyone elses’, to make your ears deaf to the laughter and weeping of the world around you. You don’t know my life. I don’t know yours.
But I’d like to… if you’ll let me.
I’m a sarcastic, whiny, impossible jerk at times.
But I will stop in a heartbeat to love you, because it just feels better.
