I'm back, blogosphere, and I'm better than ever. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but it sure sounded good, right? And confident. Like I should be bursting through the doors in a great pair of heels and one of those huge wide-brimmed hats that women only wear to fancy horse races, arms out and voice raised in triumph. So maybe in real life it's more like flip-flops and frizzy hair, and I trip through the doorway and my voice has a little bit of that change of pitch on the end that makes a statement sound more like a question. Am I better than ever?
There is a line I like from a Caedmon's Call song that goes, "You know I had a laugh that the same old struggles that plagued me then are plaguing me still." Is that not the human condition? I notice a weakness, try to scrub it out, only to find myself back where I started. It's like a loose tooth. You know it'll hurt if you press on it, but you just can't stop yourself because even though it hurts, there is something oddly comforting in the pain.
I'm like that with comparisons. Not the literary or philosophical kind, but those sneaky half-conscious comparisons I make between myself and others, usually other women. I see another girl and wish I was that thin. Or that tall. Or that artistic. Or that intellectual. Or blah, blah, blah. The list goes on, the list of things I view as glaring inadequacies within myself and unfair blessings to others. And then they turn into questions to God. God, why did you make me so scatter-brained? God, why did you make me with big thighs? God, why did you make me so ___________? I begin to question my very design.
The thing is, it's not about measuring up. It's about being better than someone else. Because if I'm better than someone else, then that gives me a sense of pride. And therein lies the true darkness. C.S. Lewis described pride as the root of all sin, or the granddaddy of sins, if you will permit a coloquial rephrasing. You see, the real reason I compare myself to others is not to feel like I'm less than others (although I will come back to that in a moment), it's for that rare and fleeting moment where I feel like I am more than others. It's when the pain turns into selfish joy. Ugly. I'm so ugly then.
The other side is that there is something oddly comforting about feeling less than others. I can turn it into an excuse. I'm not pretty enough to go talk to that guy or I'm not organized enough to remember your birthday. Those are things that beautiful girls with dayminders do. Not me. There's relief in the excuse. It's really quite handy that way. I can also play the victim. I can feel sorry for myself and wallow and have an Eeyore-type attitude because I have so obviously been overlooked in the gene pool. This is quite convenient as well, because suddenly I've shifted the blame. I make it God's responsibility.
So this is where I find myself again. Wiggling that loose tooth. Sticking the thorn back in my side. Comparing myself with those around me. Maybe I never really stopped, but just became less conscious of it. Either way, here it is, staring me in the face. So now I have a choice. I can choose to question God, make excuses, and play the victim. I can choose to bury myself in that strangely comforting pain. Or I can choose to believe God. I can believe Him when He tells me that he lovingly and artistically molded me. I can believe Him when He shows me that through Him all things are possible. And I can believe Him when He reminds me that He has made me more than a conqueror.
The choice is not easy.
But the choice is clear.
