I usually don’t realize that I’ve been insulted for at least a day or two after the fact. Then a warm flush spreads from head to toe and I gasp. Well Hush My Mouth!
Slap my butt and call me crazy, but I think you’ve been disrespected when somebody moans at the sight of something you genuinely like about yourself. Don’t doubt the intended insult when the same person groans that an act which fills you with pride reminds them of everything they hate about you.
My stomach still churns as I ruminate on all the ways in which I’ve been a disappointment to people whom I wanted to please. But I’m not complaining. Stripped of all pretense that I can fulfill the hopes and dreams of anyone but myself, I’m left to scrape the mud off my Mary Janes and sit down at life’s dinner table. Party of One, I proclaim, loudly, knowing that a long line of would-be companions of both genders, all ages, and various nationalities fell back as I trudged forward.
But a waft of deliciousness rises from the plate which rests before me. A goblet of sweet nectar stands at the ready. With a start, I realize that I’m a welcome guest; possibly, even honored. I raise my fork. The feast begins.
It’s evening on the twentieth day of the forty-second month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.