So they say

Somebody made fun of me. Without humor, in front of me, hoping I wouldn't notice. Later, I went for a walk and let a sorrow that I haven't felt for a long time roll around and scrape at my guts. It must have been laundry day because most balconies had clothes hanging, swaying in the breeze. The chests of the shirts puffed up as they breathed in the breeze and shrunk as they breathed out. The skirts fluttered. I think about stupidity sometimes, especially when I walk. About my own stupidity and the various ways it comes out. No, I don't think I'm stupid. Somewhere a while back, I talked about the ways that I'm dumb. It's not in all ways, just in some ways. I say dumb things a lot. I'm comfortable with having my dumb moments. They might bother other people, but I don't mind them. In some ways, I like them. They make up part of who I am. As I walked, I saw a woman holding her full grown golden retriever like a baby while the neighborhood kids gathered around and reached to touch its fur. When she put him back down, he immediately rolled onto his back and pawed at the sky so the kids would have easy belly-rubbing access. In the background, the dark grey clouds in the sky brought out the purple in the flowering trees and made them look electric. Like big purple light bulbs against a grey ceiling. Little pockets of beauty to make me feel better. That's when I realized that everyone is dumb. In some ways, in at least one way, everyone is dumb. Everyone. No one can be good and smart and gifted at everything. I'm dumb at talking. Big deal. Anyone who focuses on that, on the dumbness of the people around them, is dumb at empathy. And that's okay. We've all got our weaknesses, our dumbness. I rounded a corner and nearly ran into two young girls, maybe 10-ish. One was grinning menacingly while pushing the other, struggling and near tears, towards a group of boys playing soccer. I wanted to stop them and tell them that it'll be okay. That they'll grow out of this. Some day down the road, they'll grow out of this. Or so they say.
But I kept walking.      

I don't care.

There are lots of things that I don't care about any more. Things that I used to, at least mildly, care about, and recently realized that I just don't anymore. And kinda don't want to care about. Things like being knowledgeable, seeming intelligent, being described as "well read" or "articulate". Talking about interesting things for the sake of talking about interesting things. Being interesting. Anything related to how others perceive me, I guess. Fitting anyone else's definition of cool or popular or entertaining or witty or great. I don't care. Maybe it's age? Maturity? It's not that I want to be lame or boring - I just don't care anymore if that's what I am to somebody else. It seems as of late all I care about being is my own definition of a good person. It's kind of nice to have that one simple thing as a guide to being me instead of all those other things that people want me, and everyone, to be. Each person wants everyone else to fall into some sort of category they've created in their head. We make up our own definition of cool, of interesting, of boring and then apply that definition to everyone we meet. The thing that has always kinda bothered me about me is that I try to match everyone else's definition of cool as I get to know them. I lose track of my own definition. At least I used to. And now I just don't care. Everyone at the dinner table might be talking about ___________ and how great of a book/movie/tv show/animal/place/thing it is and I'm kinda suddenly totally okay with having absolutely nothing to say. Three or four or even two years ago, that would not have been the case.

This is all I care about:
Finding the positive in every person/place/thing and letting that be their defining feature. Shrugging off the negative, as much as possible. Interacting with the understanding that everyone is full of dreams and despair at the same time - including me, including you, including the people that nobody likes - regardless of the face each of us tries to show to the world. Loving and fearing and respecting the fact that each person, each brain, is a complex, convoluted world of its own and I'm never really going to understand anyone else. And no one is ever going to really understand me. And remembering that it's all going to be okay, in the end. Because lots of stuff matters to each individual person, but nothing really does actually matter. To everything. To most things. In the entire history of time, in the entire expanse of the universe, not one single thing that happens in anyone's life matters. At all. I find that comforting, somehow.              

The Current Dilemma

I can't decide which size bottle of contact solution to buy. Do I go with the super-sized bottle, which would last me months and would be impractical to pack for trips and is really only meant to be bought by someone who is staying in one place for a while. Someone who is content enough with their situation to renew their teaching contract for another year and store their contact solution on its own shelf in their admittedly spacious bathroom. Or do I go with the petite bottle, which is meant to be bought by people prone to moving, people who need a bottle that can go on airplanes and not weigh them down. A bottle that would fit in the tiniest of unknown bathrooms and would last a little over a month, just enough time to finish out my teaching contract and get me back home to America. By my estimates, I've got about 5 days till my current bottle runs dry...5 more days to decide which size bottle to buy. Oof.