Wrong

I hate being wrong.
I hate wrongness.
And apparently I hate milk. (My husband told me I vehemently professed my hatred while under anesthesia a few months ago.)

I hate the idea that there is something wrong with me. But there are days that I think a little devil jerk is sitting on my shoulder, and every time I think something is wrong with me, he squeezes an annoying red buzzer that rings loudly in my ear.

Wrongness bugs me about my physical appearance.
Why aren’t I taller? What’s wrong with me that I’m neither short or tall?
Why aren’t I thinner? What’s wrong with me that I’m neither thin nor overweight?
Why don’t I look amazing in everything? Why can’t I wear high heels longer than two minutes? Why can’t I run long distances? Why does my skin react so poorly to heat? Or wool?

Wrongness harasses me about my personality.
Why don’t I like it when strangers talk to me? Why can’t I talk to strangers easily? What is wrong with me that makes it awkward for me to make friends quickly? Why don’t I actually want to? Why don’t I feel like I can open up to people right away? Why am I so quick to judge? Why don’t I enjoy being around people? What is wrong with me that I would almost always rather be alone?

Wrongness picks at my life choices.
Why can’t I be more consistent? Why does committing sometimes freak me out? Why don’t I like kids (yes, I like mine), or want to have anymore of my own? Why do I get bored so fast? Why don’t I go to church anymore? Should I? Why do I constantly desire change? Why can’t I be satisfied with what I have? Why can’t I be content with the everyday routines of life?

The thing is, I’m not wrong. I am perfectly and uniquely designed. I’m only wrong when I compare myself to someone or something else. I will never look like ____. I will never be or act like _____. My life will never resemble _____. I will never be able to fix my past to look like someone else’s. I could try. Actually, I have; it’s exhausting. And fruitless. (Seriously, some people don’t eat fruit. WTH.)

My husband just told me a useful life/work balance exercise he learned from a friend. Basically, you make a list of all the people that are important to you, and next to their name, write down what you’d like them to say at your funeral. And then make a plan on how to go about making that a truth. For instance, if you want your sister to tout your generosity during your eulogy, then you send her money or gifts every paycheck until your demise. Or visit her once a month and help her do or accomplish a task. Or maybe you donate to her favorite charity, or give her the shirt off your back. Whatever you think it’ll take.

Initially, I agreed that this was a cool way of accomplishing your goals and getting the most out of your life. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it wasn’t my style. Perhaps it's a good way to take inventory and do an overall sort of life check-in. But something about the action plan smelled of manipulation to me. What if you do all that, and the only thing your sister thinks is that you were overbearing and annoying? What if it harmed her confidence and made her worry that you thought she couldn’t handle her own life? What if the best case scenario was that she thought you were helpful? Or nice. Or supportive? Would you consider that a success? I suppose you wouldn’t know; but perhaps you’d go to your deathbed feeling good and confident in your efforts. She can tell you all about your funeral in whatever afterlife you believe in. :)

It just seems like a lot of work to me with no absolute guarantee of payoff. Sure, you maybe become a better person in the process. It seems easier to me, to just be my best self, then people will love me for who I am, not for what I forced them or chose for them to believe/feel about me. It’s okay if that’s important to you. But for me, it’s okay if at my funeral, people are like, “I didn’t know her very well; she kept to herself. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy deep conversations and those she chose to spend time with. She listened. She also seemed to enjoy reading and having adventures immensely, loved her family, and loved life. She occasionally shared her passions publicly through singing and writing.

I feel like those are things that come naturally to me. And really, that’s what is important to me: staying true to myself, and who I am. Not blending in and not being someone else; someone I’m not. I have this one life to live, and I don’t want to spend it trying to live someone else’s life. I don’t care what ya say or do at my funeral. It can be as sorrowful or as giddy as you’d like, just let me go in my rainbow Milly gown and with a jar of almond butter and some honeycrisp apples. And my iPad Kindle app (somebody please keep my wifi/cellular account paid, okay?) I’ll be good.

I’ll be me. Which is what is right. I can love my differences. I can appreciate the things that make me unique. I can find joy in my decisions. Appreciate and dwell in the things that set me apart. I am right. I am me.

And apparently, I am a fairy. Shhh! Don’t tell anyone! (Also stated while under anesthesia.)