Too often, “first world problem” is used to dismiss the earnest confessions of our peers. Along with its more intellectual cousin, accusing someone of ignorance of their “privilege,” these phrases are said with two intents: to belittle another while propping the accuser as an enlightened participant of Real Life. That’s wrong. ?
Yet I am that Robert, a name worthy of leading the Confederacy but dateless at prom; ready to be quarterback of the Washington Redskins or play your favorite Hufflepuffian vampire but never scribbled inside marble notebooks, adorned by hearts and kisses. It’s sobering.
Commitment to family isn’t demonstrated by blindly opening your emotions, health, and time to individuals whose commitment to you was genetically determined. The beauty of family is when people make a choice to honor each other’s physical and emotional health.
To defend myself from such sweeping musical rejection from the fraternity of “People with good taste in music,” I have been forced to adopt tactics to prove my musical worth. I’m not proud of this. I wish the world didn’t make me have to conform to their standards. But this is not a post-musical society. I am simply adapting.
But now, I am a coffee drinker. Now I can. I can join the cool kids at trendy coffeehouses. I can start listening to Elliott Smith and Ingrid Michaelson. Perhaps date a graphic designer. The possibilities excite me. ?
As I grew older, it became clearer that everything I thought I’d miss about being a church-going Evangelical could be replicated in a secular context. In some ways, replicated in an even more satisfying way.
The point is you didn’t commit to change because this city would make you the woman you wanted to be. You knew the woman you were. You know the woman you demanded yourself to become, and she belonged in New York.
For me, clinical trials were the Affordable Care Act. Actually, more like the No Cost Care Act. For no money and no insurance, I got regular checkups, checkups I’d never get for myself otherwise.
You don’t ask many questions. You don’t question what animal bologna comes from. You don’t question if American cheese is as much cheese as Swiss or cheddar. You make no distinction between mayo or Miracle Whip. You like what you like.
Obi Wan Kenobi once told a young Skywalker, “A Jedi can feel the force running through him.” I am no different. All 90 pounds of my skinny body shakes with anticipation. I swing my aluminum slugger in the backyard, working as both bat and lightsaber.