And So It Begins

A couple of days ago, my mom (being my mom) started bugging me about writing again. I haven’t really been able to write since a catastrophic break up about four years ago, and it’s made me grumpy. Ergo, it was in my mother’s best interest to get me writing again before she got a call from the cops saying I was writing quatrains in spray paint on interstate bridges while dangling from a scarf with my teeth. (Yes. In my world, this is a likely scenario.)

 I grunted like a cavewoman and waved her off, but in typical annoying mother advice fashion, it got me to thinking. My problem with writing is that I don’t really seem to have anything worth writing ABOUT at this point in my life. I mean, I’m basically spectacular-less. I’m not living in a foreign country or writing a dissertation. I’m 26 years old and I still live at home. My last relationship stood me up on Valentine’s Day. My degree is apparently worthless and right now the most thrilling thing in my life is mainlining five seasons of Leverage on Hulu Plus and figuring out how to cycle a ten gallon fish tank. This does not Pulitzer Prize material make.

 Then this delightful lady walked in to the toy store where I work, and somehow we got to talking. Turns out she didn’t get married until she was 39, and she had some great perspectives on what it meant to be single. We chatted about how people viewed women who were still single in their late twenties and thirties and how success isn’t necessarily as it is defined in today’s world. It was really a bright spot in my day, meeting someone who had been where I am now and was able to say, “Screw ‘em. There’s nothing wrong with you.” She had even been a bridesmaid more times than me! (I’m waaaaaay past the “three times a bridesmaid, never a bride” thing.) Basically, she assured me that there is no specific guidemap to happiness and personal contentment. Just because one is expected to do something at a certain age doesn't mean that one should.

 I was driving home, and it came to me: I do have something to write about. I am this rare and intriguing thing — a modern day spinster without a sparkling career to match. I am exceptional in my lack of outward accomplishments. Surely there are other people in this same place? Other post undergrads whose shiny degrees basically mean crap and are hoping that the economy picks up at some point so that they can build careers and have what the world views as a prosperous life?

 So here it is: my blog on what it means to be unexceptional, my foray into the world of bland, boring and broke. I’m going to talk about whatever I feel like talking about: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin. You may not agree with me; that’s okay. A lot of times I don’t agree with me. My hope is to start a dialogue, a community of “losers.” We’re here. We’re not as pathetic as we seem. We don’t have diverse portfolios or sexy business woman shoes, and somehow we continue to breathe in and out. It’s time for me to stop being ashamed of where I am in my life, and to start taking pride in my mediocrity.

 Let’s get started.