Moose in the Kitchen

Trust me, I don’t want to be that girl. (You know the one. She wears a lot of lip gloss and cringes when the dial is spun to NPR.) If I had a choice in the matter, I would have killer debate skills, a wide-ranging knowledge of world events, and a keen sense of How Best To Save Darfur. Which I would project manage in my spare time, staying on budget and perhaps employing Batman.

I would also be able to fly.

But my first word was “shoes.” Not “demagogue.” Or even “filibuster”. Scan up to the masthead there. Yeah. That about covers it. Except for the glasses. The glasses lend a wise, scholarly air that is A TOTAL SHAM.

For the most part, I’m happy with my product-loving, perhaps somewhat shallow, but reasonably empathetic self. I need some fine-tuning (see: judgement, end of paragraph), but I’m not flitting about with a chainsaw and ski mask, refining my methods of curing human skin to sew into bed pillows. I consider that a good base on which to build. So, yes. On most days, I’m pretty happy with myself, and a proponent of live-and-let-live. But I also spend time with judgmental people. Fitting, as I can be quite judgmental myself. But judgment’s a bitch when it’s coming from the other direction.

Years ago, some friends of a boyfriend ended up in my living room. They didn’t really want to be there. They wanted to be some place with a menu, preferably one with truffle oil and lots of wine. For reference, my living room has neither truffle oil nor lots of wine. We had been hiking, they were hungry, I couldn’t walk. My story would be far more heartrending if I was recovering from polio, but my pelvis just inexplicably hurt. I had some physical issues at the time, but nothing to adequately explain the pelvic malfunction.

So there they were, stuck in a house with no food save a wilted apple while I took a bath to relax the malfunctioning pelvis before we went to dinner. Our TV reception was spotty at best, so they were forced to my DVD collection. Which prominently features Sex and the City. As I limped past the living room to get to the bathroom, a girl yelled to me in a rather cutting tone of voice, “How can you watch such schlock?” As said schlock was on the TV at the time, I felt quite noble in not pointing out that she, too, was watching schlock.

The cutting tone of voice? Stung. As did the implication that my chosen entertainment is not worth my time, much less theirs. At that moment, I was ashamed to own Sex and the City.

I’m happy to announce that I have since grown a spine.

Educating yourself and expanding your view of the world is essential. As guilty as anyone of mocking media consumption, I admit to an impromptu fish impression because someone, somewhere, has bought this. But sometimes entertainment is just that – entertaining. Whether it’s Nascar (which I have mocked), wrestling (which I have also mocked), or sledding down the stairs in a cardboard box (which is awesome), people enjoy different things. Which I try (and occasionally fail, see: mocking) to appreciate. If expanding your world view includes Paris Hilton, who am I to say you should abandon that posing hussy and go read Dickens instead?

I went through a phase of only reading terribly intellectual things. Things you would want the cute boy with the glasses on the bus to see you reading, because it declares you Smart! Interesting! And Many Other Improbable Conclusions To Base On a Book! Getting more comfortable with myself means I’m able to put tawdry reading material on my credit card with nary an embarrassed shuffle, or claim that it’s “actually historical fiction”. Realizing that my reading material is about as influential to the state of the world as a camel farting in the desert was a crucial stage in my development. And my knowledge of Regency England.

I’m prone to thinking I should be different. More able to banter about Congressmen, less inclined to purchase lip gloss. But that would be dishonest. And my lips would be dry. Why try to rewire my brain by reading The Economist, if I hate every damn minute of it? I am learning to accept myself for the lip gloss-wearing, Sex and the City-watching, NPR-cringing* person that I am.

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*NPR usually rocks my world. Except when death, rape and pillage are broadcast while I’m trying to eat bacon. Nothing takes the fun out of bacon like a little murder. (Advocates for the Rights of Tasty Porcine Creatures, please keep your mouths shut.)