mandarine

Blogs are the perfect place to show one’s best traits and hide the rest. I am concerned that mandarine is gradually painting a deceptive portrait of me. I am not Mr Nice. I try to be. But I fail. Here is why.

Below are five major flaws of mine. Not the make-believe double-edged semi-flaws that are custom-made for job-interviews, but real inexcusable flaws. The ones that will make me burn in hell.

I am a coward

I have the courage to endure rain, cold, heat, effort, thirst, or hunger without the slightest trace of a whine, but I will go out of my way to avoid confrontation with any human being. When I am raised one’s voice at, especially in an unfair debate when it becomes personal, I will run and hide under the nearest table. I know it, so that long before voices are risen, when I feel disagreement coming my way and the need to confront opinions in a heated argument, you will see me slither sideways, twist my principles, bend my views, pet hairwise, feign sympathy, and flee by the the nearest fire escape in an ever more brilliant display of hypocrisy.

When the stakes are low, I will convince myself that it was not all that important, that it was a wise move not to fuel the fire, and that I can live with it. And when the stakes are high, I will be brooding the conflict over and over again and come up with any machiavellian plan that will avoid direct face-to-face debate if said debate cannot remain fair and cool. I am still afraid of revenge, so I always have to make it look like it is a win-win situation, when in fact I want it my way. I like to call it diplomacy. Others would call it cowardice and they would probably be nearer the hard truth.

I always feel superior

I am supposed to be a roman catholic (please stay). I went to confession twice. I cannot remember what the first time was, but I do remember the second time, when I was seventeen. The priest was a genius. A young man I had an immense admiration for. On that occasion, the sin that spontaneously came to my mind was that whatever I did, I felt I did it better than others: I could think smarter, learn faster, speak wiser, write clearer, act nicer than anybody I knew. It made me feel bad. Not because it was pride, but because apparently it was true, and therefore it was unjust. Said priest did confirm that I was exceptional — little good did it do me — but he offered me a fair way out, derived from the parable of the talents (Matthew 25:14-30): now I had to use all the gifts that I had been endowed with to make life better for everybody else. It sounded fine, but in addition to not solving my feeling superior problem, it gave me a moral duty that was all but specific, measurable, attainable, realistic or timely… Now not only do I still feel superior, but until I save the world, I also feel I am wasting whatever I was given.

I am insufferable

I once or twice met people whom I believe were like me: they had an interesting opinion about everything; they always managed to appear smart; they looked and sounded pleasant; they said stupid things and then tried to disguise their initial ignorance when someone had detected it, or worse: they acknowledged the mistake modestly and thus appeared even nicer. When I was with these people, it was OK, but when I was not part of the conversation, oh I loathed how they hijacked the discussion, how they lectured everyone, how they made people laugh. I could almost understand why a (not-so-)madman would decide to stab them.

Now and then, fellow travelers on my train fall the victims of such a Mr or a Miss Self-confident, Big-brother, I-am-always-right, I-know-it-all, I-am-so-nice; I really want to stand up and shout: “I know your kind! Shut up and just listen to the shy girl in the corner!”. But I am a coward, so I put my earphones, pump up the volume and grit my teeth until it becomes bearable.

I brag

I know I can do things well. I like to publicize what I do. All I do. I cannot help it. I seldom lie or exaggerate what I can do, but too often, just telling is bragging.

Let me give you a fresh example. For instance, it is 9:30, I am parking my bike; a colleague passes by and admires the headlamp attached to my helmet:

Me (instead of shy smile and a thank you) — It’s because it’s still night when I leave home in the morning.
Colleague (predictably intrigued) — Where do you live then?
Me (innocently)– I live a hundred miles from here and I take a train.
Colleague (interested) — You take your bike on the train?
Me (instead of branching off about how unpractical it is to take one’s bike on the train and leaving it at that) — no, I have two of them: one between my house and the station, and one here.
Colleague (still trying to understand the ‘night’ bit) — How long is it between your house and the station?
Me (instead of saying ‘half an hour’) — It is 7 miles, but it takes a little over thirty minutes because I have to climb 700 feet up the valley.
Colleague (obviously impressed) — … some compliment …

Here we are. Innocent clues, and it is as if I had told my colleague: “hey, look at my cool cycle gear! Do you know I have two bikes and I ride thirty kilometers every day? I must tell you I wake up at six to catch my train! And wouldn’t you agree I am a true athlete to climb that steep uphill portion daily?”. Did he ever have a chance to brag about himself? No. Did he have a true opportunity to bail out of the bragging session? Not really. Did I sound interested in him? Nope. It was just plain bragging.

Chances are that in this very post, which was intended for some well-deserved self-bashing, you can spot at least a dozen instances of such hypocrit compulsive bragging.

I can’t dance

At all. And there is nothing special about the way I walk either. Last time I danced was for my wedding — ten whole minutes — and probably the reason why I stay faithful, lest I had to dance again should I choose a new wife. On the other hand, it will probably be the top item on my wife’s divorce reasons list.
It is not just that I am a lousy dancer, that would be fine. It is that I could not find any pleasurable experience in it (apart from showing off if I was good at it, which I am not). I sure like the hugging part of a slow dance, but I do not get why we should move our feet so and so and risk tripping when we could just stand and hug.
Somehow the whole of mankind seems hardwired to love dancing. Even my dad loves dancing, and not just to please my mom. I am probably from another planet. That would explain a lot of things.

Epilogue

And you do not know everything. But now you have been warned.

This is not a meme. Nobody is tagged.

This entry is filed under psychology. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.