That Particular Feeling of Inadequacy.
If I were asked to describe myself, I would probably say I’m a smart/witty/slightly awkward type of lady.
For example, if I had to compare my personality to a celebrity’s, I’d say that I fancy myself an Anna Kendrick-type, except not quite as witty on the Twitter. (Twitty?)
This is great, since smart/witty/slightly awkward ladies are having a cultural moment. I feel today’s pop culture is swarming with amazing women who are being appreciated and celebrated and, at the very least, talked about for being smart/witty/slightly awkward and comfortable with that.
I love this. I relish it. I roll around in the fact that girls just like me are making millions of dollars by proudly being their weird, no-pants-wearing selves.
And then I look at my bank account and I think, WHAT WENT WRONG?!*
I always considered myself a smart girl. Not off-the-charts, MENSA card carrying smart, but I could call someone’s bullshit, hold my own at trivia, and make the academic decathlon team. I was in the top 5% of my high school graduating class, I was in the honors college, I graduated with a “cum” in my degree.
But now, at 26, I read and watch and listen to and generally ingest books and TV shows and podcasts and blogs and articles and think, “How did I ever believe I was smarter than average?”
I recognize that this is a self-defeating attitude. That if I give into it, I’ll sink into a depression that will probably require medication, or at least some sort of situation where an attractive stranger compliments my hair on a humid day, to get me out of it.
I know that I should think positive thoughts and list out all the things I’m good at. But when I do that, all I actually think about is that there are probably at least 2 million people on this planet alone who are as good at or better at the things I think I’m good at.
They can probably figure out how to end sentences without a preposition in a way that doesn’t make them sound totally pretentious, at least. (…who are as good at or better at the things at which I think I’m good. BLERGH. That’s a stupid-ass rule anyway.)
And so I slowly sink into that glorious feeling of mediocrity where you arrive at the point where you think, “Fuck it.” and then giggle for far longer than is acceptable while watching that corgi-flop gif.
You know the one.
*I really need font makers (typographers? graphic designers? clever artistic types? What the frak do you call people who make fonts?) to embrace the interrobang. Really.