Silencing my inner bitch

I feel like a bit of a hypocrite right now.

I feel like I don’t deserve all the nice things you said about me in your comments on this post.

The stuff about me having such a big heart and being so caring: it sounds lovely and oh-so-seductive to my ears, but I’m not sure it’s true.

A few weeks back I wrote about resolutions and how I think they are just part of our genetic makeup: what I didn’t reveal was the resolution I made for myself.

Yes, I am serious about doing this. But quietly, and with no small sense of shame, I also made another resolution.

I resolved to silence my inner bitch.

I hate her. I don’t know where she comes from or why she has taken up residence in my brain. I don’t know why I, someone who cries at the drop of a hat, loses sleep over mistreated animals and always roots for the underdog, continue to tolerate the mean-spirited little voice that makes snarky, snap judgments of far too many innocent strangers who cross my path.

I’m not talking about snarking on celebrities or public figures. Though I have stuck to my resolution to cut out the worst of it, I have no real problem dishing up stupid celebrity antics: in fact I did that here and even pissed off a few readers.

I’m talking about my internal dialogue that too often slices and dices people I encounter when I’m out and about and generally feeling harried and busy and impatient.

Nice makeup job honey, I think, when the overly made-up eccentric at the produce market grabs the avocado I was eyeing. You’re a complete and total idiot, I mentally brand the guy ahead of me in the checkout line who can’t find his wallet.

I can’t believe out of ten million sperm you were the fastest, I seethe when the cashier takes more than a few seconds to make my change.

What is wrong with me? Why do I do this?! Isn’t this kind of bitchiness more suited to high school mean girls than a 30-something adult? I don’t want to be young again. I’m less cocky and more grateful now. I have shed much of youth’s conceit and come to realize that my good fortune in life is mostly attributable to blind, good luck

My circle of friends has expanded over the years to include people of all shapes and circumstances. Especially since becoming a mother I’ve learned a lot about tolerance and hard work. I’ve reflected long and hard on the difficulty of some people’s choices or lack thereof.

So why is my very first instinct so often cruelty rather than compassion?

One of the things I love not just about writing, but writing about everyday stuff, is that I truly believe beauty and poignancy is most often found in the mundane. As cliché as it sounds, I really believe that each and every one of us has a story that would break your heart.

And I need to remember that.

I need to remember it no matter how much of a hurry I am in when I go about my daily business.

I need to be kinder on the inside, not just on the outside, where good behavior earns me accolades and lovely comments.

Come on, make a resolution: you know you want to!

It must be resolution time; I can hear you groaning from here.

It sounds something like this: you hate resolutions. Resolutions are stupid, passé, cliché. You never keep them and it’s pointless to even bother making them.

Yeah right – you don’t fool me.

Why even bother trying to fight January’s annual orgy of self-improvement? It’s hardwired in most of us. Chances are, if you go back a few generations, your ancestors came to Canada or the United States after resolving to make a better life for their families. I know mine did.

And our ancestor’s legacy is our own constant urge towards self-improvement – an urge that is both the pride and the bane of the North American middle class.

Sometimes I hear people say the secret to life is to want less, to do less, to simplify, to stop trying to improve. And sometimes when I feel stressed, when the free-lance work in our crazy business is slow, I lament that I have acquired some many things, a lifestyle and expectations, to which I must tend.

And at those times the idea of a little hut somewhere in the islands, where the sun is bright and life is slow, seems almost unbearably lovely.

But deep down I don’t know if that lifestyle would suit me. Deep down I think it may be the striving on which I thrive.

It’s not that I’m not already happy – I am – so very, very happy. It’s not that I don’t count my existing blessings – in fact I listed them in a rather colorful fashion just a few months back.

It’s just that life is short and the world is big and there are so many things to do and places to go and people to meet and I feel compelled to jam in as much as possible – to gobble up enough experiences to sustain happy memories and crazy stories for those days when I’m confined to my rocker.

And after all, even if it’s wearying sometimes, isn’t the constant striving, the resolving to be stronger, faster, happier, richer, thinner what makes North America such a wonderful place to live? Yes, it’s tiring, but isn’t it infectious, this ever-present idea that things can always, will always, get better, if only we resolve to make them so?

So don’t fight it. Promise yourself that you’ll jump on the treadmill, go for a run, start playing piano, hug your kids every day or cook from scratch and then give it your best shot.

And have a busy, prosperous and happy new year!