10 Things I Don’t Like About Myself – A Sad but True Accounting
We all have things that we don’t like about ourselves—well most of us do, and we don’t trust or like the people who see no need for self-improvement. They bug us. Here are 10 things I don’t like about myself. Be warned, some of the following content is just pathetic . .
1. My Face Is Shaped Like a Baby’s
This worked for me very well when I was a baby. My mother said that people would stop her when she went out just to ooh and aaah over me; cherubic is good when you’re not out of diapers. But when I started getting older, I noticed that most of the women I saw in magazines had thin, sculpted faces with almost definable planes from facial bone to facial bone. Where were mine? Buried under a layer of face fat I suppose. The strange thing was that I was not fat; but in photos, if you just looked at my face, I looked like Marlon Brando in The Godfather, who reportedly stuffed his mouth with cotton to get the full-faced look. Good news, however, for the full-of-cheek, while aging, people seem to think that I’m younger than I am because the face fat helps to combat wrinkles.
2. I Once Re-Watched an Episode of "A Haunting" Rather Than Volunteer at a Local Food Pantry for the Poor as I Had Planned
I admit it. One of my guilty pleasures is Destination America’s, A Haunting. Basically it is a bunch of ghost stories narrated by the talented, Anthony Call whose sonorous voice sounds both eerie and oddly comforting. Most of the stories go like this: A family moves into a new house or apartment; strange things start happening; there is initial denial that anything out of the ordinary is happening; then, one of the occupants of the house cannot deny the strange occurrences anymore; the other party (usually the husband) cannot accept the haunting; finally, something traumatic happens, and the denial cannot continue; a psychic is called in and confirms the presence of a spirit or spirits; there is a spiritual battle which ensues, and the entity either leaves or the family leaves the premises. As formulaic as the plots normally are, I just can seem to get enough. I have watched and re-watched numerous episodes.
As I was getting ready to volunteer at a local food pantry for the needy, one for which people will line up and wait in the cold until it opens, one of my many-watched episodes of A Haunting came on. Though the poor waited right around the corner, I just couldn’t tear myself away from the TV. I ceased getting ready, ate something which was bad for me, and sat my butt back down on the couch. The self-loathing which followed definitely wasn’t worth it, and I tried not to look when I later drove by the pantry and saw the line outside. Badly done, me.
3. I Listen to the Eighties Group "Survivor" More Than I Listen to Bach
How sad is that? Not that Survivor doesn’t have its virtues. If you ever need to get motivated to accomplish an impossible feat, Survivor is your band. Songs such as Burning Heart, Eye of the Tiger, Moment of Truth, and Rebel Son can make me spring from the fetal position into a fighting stance. It doesn’t hurt that I’m a child of the montage eighties, when motivating songs played while film protagonists accomplished the unimaginable. Still, I am an educated woman, and as an educated woman I owe it to myself to consistently polish the many spikey and unruly edges (In my case, I can’t believe that I don’t look like a porcupine). When I listen to a Bach cantata, the mundane and silly cares of my day slide off of me like sweat off of a prizefighter’s forehead; and when I listen to one of Bach’s Brandenburg concertos, it feels like the left and right hemispheres of my brain (normally, ne’er the twain shall meet) speak to each other in rapid succession, and I, who has been known to be so emotional I cry at the site of baby ducks, begin to feel the cool mist of reason settle itself slowly into the nooks and crannies of my mind. I even have hope that I could someday develop the cool demeanor of Christine Lagarde (I can just hear my friends and family laughing at the possibility). When one of Bach’s fast-paced and minor-keyed movements resolves itself into a major key, I feel a burden lift and hope surge from the lower chakras of my body into the higher chakras and rise out of the top of my head. Even with all that Bach does for me, I normally choose to pump up with Survivor. I need the motivation to workout. I am still the not so proud proprietor of those ten pounds I put on last winter (the ones that hang on like Madonna’s need for attention).
4. My Caboose Was Too Big for Me to be a Nationally Ranked Long-Distance Runner
As a track star in high school, I received a track and cross country scholarship to a college in the Intermountain West. I looked forward with eagerness to my college running career. While I had two good cross country and track seasons, even placing in the region in the 1500 meters, it came to a screeching halt during my third cross country season. I noticed my hips starting to get wider, and I began to slow. Dismayed, I went to a doctor who stated that I had developed very late, and was just now finishing my development at 20. He said that he had seen this in other female athletes whose body fat had remained low from being a young athlete. As I took the long walk up the stairs to tell Coach that I quit, tears formed in my eyes.
“I have been expecting this; you just look so much bigger.” That helped.
5. I Have Spent More Time Being a Tortured Writer Than a Writer
After the end of my “Illustrious” track and cross country college career, I transferred to a different university where I went on to earn two Bachelor of Arts degrees—one in psychology and one in English. I noticed that I had some writing talent, and so I obtained an emphasis in creative writing along with my English degree. I wrote frequently while earning my degree and still thought of myself as a “writer” after I graduated. The only problem was that I hardly ever wrote. I even made sure at some point that I was working part time instead of full time so that I could write. I spent a great deal of time thinking about relationships, breaking up with people, getting back together with people, and in therapy. All the while, I was a “writer.” Writers, especially fellow “hubbers” look upon my doleful tale and learn: If you’re a writer, write! Don’t watch TV, think too much about your boyfriend, stay in jobs that sap your energy day after day, curl up on the couch with no purpose, or keep checking eHarmony.com for your “matches”; write!
6. I Was Rejected from the Marriage-Worthy Dating Site, eHarmony.com
“This time I’m going to do it,” said my thirty-something self, “I’m going to meet that special someone.” I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the beginning of trouble. EHarmony.com seemed like the perfect place to meet a mate. Grandfatherly-looking Neil Clark Warren smiled at us from some sort of place where everywhere was the end of the rainbow and said that eHarmony.com was that special dating site because participants took questionnaires which increased our chances of a perfect match. After taking over an hour to fill out the questionnaire, I was full of anticipation: Who would be that special man? Instead a message appeared which said something close to, “Sorry. We cannot help you. We cannot help approximately 23% of those who apply to our site.”
“Why Neil Clark Warren? I did everything you told me to do to find the perfect match.”
My heart sank and I wondered what Neil Clark Warren knew about me that I didn’t know. Was I just too depressed to marry? Did he kick out everyone who was hard to match? I didn’t know, but I walked the Manhattan streets in shame. I didn’t even tell my therapist what happened, I was so embarrassed. Finally, I could bear the shame alone no more, and told my roommate. She laughed uproariously. She told her circle of artistic friends, and they laughed uproariously. Soon, I found myself laughing too. But, Neil Clark Warren, I have a couple of questions for you:
Why don’t you have a losers’ group? If you can’t match approximately 23% of us, why don’t you send us an e-mail which states, “I can’t help you, and I don’t know if anyone ever can, but click here and we’ll connect you with all of the rest of the rejects. Good luck trying to figure it out!” At least that would give us something to hang onto.
Why do you try and lure us in with promises of finding a mate when you are only going to reject 23% of us?
And Neil Clark Warren, I never would have registered for your site had I been able to find my soulmate on my own. I had to go to your competitor’s site to do that.
7. I Can Polish Off a Big Bag of Lay’s Classic Potato Chips Faster Than Kim Kardashian Divorced Her First Husband
Why are Lay’s Classic potato chips so good? They are thin and crispy and make just the right sound when I crunch. In order to avoid eating the whole family-sized bag I have had to play games with myself like buying them at the grocery store, letting myself eat them in the car, and then throwing them away before I get home so I can’t retrieve them from my own trash.
8. I Have Been “Let Go” from Some Really Crappy Temp Jobs
I am a woman of some paralegal experience working for some of Manhattan’s top firms. Still, I managed to be “let go” from some temp jobs. The worst temp job I was ever “let go” from was by a very small firm in a mid-sized city. The man, for whom the firm was named, was a despot. He had a faithful assistant who had worked for him for years. When she complained that she and the other legal assistant could no longer shoulder the workload, he hired someone else to replace her and moved her down to the receptionist’s desk. When she put in her two-week notice, he fired her within two days. When I copied something for him, he insisted that it be two-sided so that it did not kill trees. After I did this, he complained that I did not leave the last page of the subdocuments blank. When I went to re-copy the documents, I was so muddled I did a sh---- job. Still, I did my best and worked my heart out putting on my best face every day despite his curmudgeonly ways. I think it was because of the copy job that he let me go. That “failure” left me depressed for weeks.
I ran into an attorney who had worked for aforestated law firm, and he said that he was glad to be out of “the gulag—that awful, awful place.” This did make me feel better though it didn’t help that the despot who had let me go was actually a brilliant attorney.
9. I Have Written Some Bad Doggerel Verse
In my attempts at becoming a poet, I have written some real doozies. I wrote a poem for Valentine’s Day for my boyfriend in the eighties. At the time, I was so proud of it, I got a red calligraphy pen and inscribed it proudly on his valentine. Years later, my old boyfriend and I came to discussing old times, and he brought out the poem I had written for him. It was so bad, I tore it up and made him promise we would never speak of it again.
10. I Really Believed That the French Male Model I Dated Was Infatuated With Me
Walking down the streets of New York, I was feeling sassier than usual so when I saw an extraordinarily handsome man, I had no trouble smiling at him. He stopped walking, and turned back to look at me. I stopped in my tracks as well, and we met for a drink. As we conversed, I noticed that this man had a strong French accent and was struggling to find his words:
“You are not too thin; you do not have too much skin.”
When he saw the puzzled look on my face, he said, “How do you say? You are not too fat.”
“You modeled,” I said.
“I’ll bet the female models fought over you.”
“You know many thing,” he said.
We continued to meet and I couldn’t believe my luck in meeting whom I had grown to know as “Terminator France” (pronounced the French way).
“You come with me to the Champs-Élysées in the spring? I have an apartment there.”
This was just getting better and better. Though a voice whispered caution, I began to be carried away. I even ventured to mention Terminator France to my friends
I had experienced this carried away feeling before. Years earlier, a writer of a well-known television series asked me out on a date. His initial question was, “Are you an actress?” I was flattered by this but said that I didn’t think I would come out well on film (remember, my face is shaped like a baby’s). “You never can tell,” he said profoundly, “who will light up the screen.” When I recounted this to my father, “The Count,” he said, “It’s called a line.”
Back to Terminator France—he continued to call and would say such things as, “Are you my baby? Please say you are my baby.” Then one day he said he would meet me at a designated time and place. He did not show. His explanation when he later called was, “I was not in this city.” I knew that he had recently broken up with a girlfriend in New Mexico; perhaps he was there. When he didn’t show again, I knew that he had either gone back to said girlfriend in New Mexico or more likely met a wealthy woman with a home in The Hamptons, who had taken him in as her boy toy (at the time, Terminator France was short on cash). As I sat in the ashes of my French romance, I realized in this case I really should have listened to The Count’s voice of cynicism and reason. Ladies, beware: if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.
I hope you enjoyed my list of 10 reasons I don’t like myself. When I’m feeling blue, I remember that even Gandhi probably had such a list. At the very least, I hope it made you feel better about yourself, or maybe you can write a list of your own and publish it on hubpages.com . .