Growing up,
people tell us to make a list of the qualities we want in a relationship. When
you’re a kid, it’s for a best friend. I wrote things like “thinks beanie babies
are awesome” and “is hilarious.” It’s a lesson in positive reinforcement, think
only of things you want, and then look for those things in other people. I am
very good at this; it shows in the quality of my close friends. Individually,
they exemplify the very epitome of a “pros only” list, littering my social
circle with positive, affable characteristics. When you are eight, the only
thing that matters is finding the good things about others around you. There is
plenty of time to figure out what is bad about them.
But as we got
older, the balance of our list was fulfilled as experience and mistakes taught
difficult lessons about the uniqueness of the human race. Friends fight over
unforgettable wrongs; girls and boys fall in and out of love, irreparably.
Suddenly, my list of positive attributes was stunted parallel to the qualities
I had learned I did not appreciate in my close relationships. Suddenly, “thinks
beanie babies are awesome” runs correspondingly to “but has a job;” and “is
hilarious” is countered quickly with “but is not cruel.”
Some people
write these lists down, locked away for decades only to be unearthed when a
new, vicious trait rears its unforgivable head. Others, like myself, only keep
a mental running tally of the qualities that seem only to offend my own
neurotic personality. I don’t tend to mesh well with competitive boys, because
I am overly competitive. Girls that lose themselves in romantic relationships
have no staying power in my life, as I put as much importance and weight on
each of my relationships, no matter the slant. It is only through
trial-and-error that these facts become screamingly obvious; it is only after
many, many errors do I realize the trial needs to change. Still, the lists
remain abstract, describing no one in particular, only the ideology of a
perfect human being.
So my problem as
of late seems to be stomaching the notion of a physical list with my name in
bright lights. Without going in to the over-intrusive details, it seems I have
been confronted with a list of pros and cons. Scrawling down the entire page,
scratches on both sides of the wall, the pros sang of my greatness, and the
cons gnawed at a much less gracious side of me.
This begs the
question: when someone in you life has written down a list of things that are
good , and a list of things that are not so good about you, what response, if
any, is suitable?
First and
foremost, being a girl has its pitfalls. Night after night, I keep myself awake
bouncing back and forth between acceptance and anger. There are moments when I
think, how could anyone ever think such unfair thoughts about me and still
claim to love me? Then there are moments when I remember that every criticism
can be constructive if you make it so.
To be entirely
honest, there were bullet points in the list that were echoes of previous claims.
My hyper-organized state of mind often leads me down a road of bossiness and
overbearing standards of control. The high standard of logic and rationality
instilled in me from an early age often distorts in to sharp cynicism and critical
judgment. I have been informed by numerous people, some still very much present
in my life, that my teasing nature turns soon sour when I get so swept up in
the joke, I forget the human being behind it. These are qualities I should work
to amend; these are choices I make based on learned behaviors. They are not engrained
irrevocably in my DNA.
Still, there
were items on the list I felt were better suited for a different column. A
column labeled “things that I wish you were.” These are the things that cause
the flashes of momentary resentment. A point on my fear of roller coasters, which
is directly linked to my irrational fear of heights and uncontrollable
speed. Often when I was younger,
my father would try to rationalize with me, explaining that a rollercoaster would
not go any faster than 50-60 MPH, and that when I was in the car, he and my
mother drove much faster than that. He said, “you aren’t afraid then, right? So
you don’t need to be afraid now.” I tried Space Mountain. It was dark, so I
could get through it, no tears. I did not have fun. I tried the Big Thunder Mountain ride. It was daylight and I
began sobbing after the first “minor” drop. I absolutely did not have fun.
So I accept what
it is that frightens me. I faced the fears when I did not understand them, but
at some point, being an adult means you don’t HAVE to do everything that isn’t
fun for you. Just because I don’t want to ride the roller coasters doesn’t mean
I don’t want to go to theme parks. It means I get to hold your stuff while you
ride the roller coasters. It means I get to have the kind of fun that is fun
for me, and you get to have the kind of fun that is fun for you. It means you
accept that I am the girl who doesn’t like roller coasters, but will always be
willing to try a new sandwich shop. Or will never make you feel guilty for
taking a nap in the middle of the day if you’re tired. Or will always
proof-read anything you email to her as soon as she gets the email. It means
that I don’t like to go camping, but I will talk you through your computer
problems.
I think the real
issue at hand is that upon seeing a pros and cons list all about Eleanor, my
eyes merely skimmed the list of pros. The first few were superficial, nothing
that had ever mattered to me in this life or the one before. Compliments on
hygiene and fashion sense register at a 0 on a scale of what qualifies a person
to be worth her salt. They were countered with cons about my interests, almost
to say that I had the wrong interests. Almost to say, you’re pretty, but you
don’t like anything good. So maybe
the real problem is that I didn’t give the list the balance it worked so hard
to maintain. Like a weighted scale, I hit the ground when my eyes saw the
column of negatives. No amount of compliments could undo what was done; it was
as if I was looking at a graded paper, skipping over all the questions I got
right, my eyes only set for the red ink of what I got wrong. Everyday I wake up
and tell myself to be better than the day before. If someone could come up with
that many cons about me, was I even succeeding at all?
Maybe it’s just
me, but if I had to do it again, I don’t think I’d look at the list. Curiosity
killed the cat, and if the cat died of getting his heart broken just a little,
then by all accounts I should be dead. I know there are things about me that
are bad; selfish tendencies and I am a little bit spoiled. But for better or
worse, it is all part of who I am at this very moment in time. It has taken me
decades to accept that person, for all the pretty, and all the ugly, but I
have. Maybe I owe anyone else the same amount of time to accept me for me. But
the argument still stands, would decades of time hoping someone will love you
for you be considered a foolish waste of time?
At the end of
the day, a girl can only accept a list of pros and cons for exactly what it is:
a piece of paper cluttered with someone else’s opinion. The columns remain
balanced: the bad opinions weigh just as much as the good ones. If you take one
seriously, you must take the other just as seriously.
It is possible
that this was the universe’s way of getting me to realize that lists can be
used for evil - that my compulsive organized vigilance comes at a price. It
could even be that if I decided not to hate birds, I would be a better person.
At this moment in time, I don’t think it makes any difference. For now I will
try every day to be better, fix what I can, accept what I can’t, and always go
to bed knowing that every choice I made was because I wanted to make it.
