Bitter Words * Day 43/366

12 Feb

I was distracting myself from the world by reading a newly discovered blog written by a witty and funny lady. It was dedicated to….let’s say people she wanted to “nudge in the esophagus.” I had been agreeing with most of the things she was writing about; essentially picking on other people that annoyed her. I felt like one of those kids that follows a bully around in school, laughing at everything they say, to prevent the chance of becoming one of the actual victims.

It was the coldest day of the year so far, and I had just driven past and taken a picture of this familiar sculpture overlooking the lake. The metal letters make up a man pensively perched on a platform. I planned on adding it to my “photo a day” project, but couldn’t think of anything to write about it. So it would sit in my Flickr photostream as a dutiful contribution without words.

Until I read a comment that stung like the wind chill that hit my face while taking this photo. The blogger lady was complaining about people in her affluent neighborhood (how rough it must be) and how one of them named their kid Amy, but spelled it like, Aighmey or something like that. (I don’t care to check for accuracy.) Agreed, it seemed like a pretentious way to spell a simple name. I giggled and smiled until I read the next comment and my shoulders sunk.

In an effort to avoid giving allegiance to her quote, I will just mention that it was in regards to ultra-competitive moms who have to think of creative names for their kids. The name she mentioned was Capri. That’s my kid’s name. Yes, the name of the ’80s cigarettes and the short pants. It is also an island in Italy, a place of which I have fond memories. She didn’t know me in any way, shape or form. But it stung.

Why did I take her punch so personally? I don’t know this woman, but it felt like when you like a particular singer or actor until they go and say something stupid. I used to think John Mayer was the ketchup on my french fries until he started talking about his relationship with Jessica Simpson like he was in a high school locker room. I couldn’t look at him for a year after that. I felt stupid for ever liking him, and somewhat betrayed by him and those arms of his that make me wish I was a guitar.

This woman had been leading me on with her witty comments, as she bullied everyone else, until it was my turn to be picked on. I got over it after a couple martinis, but it made me think about the wonders of the worldwide web. I frequent plenty of playgrounds on the internet, but this situation (me being ultra-sensitive) reminded me to stop playing with bullies and maybe spend my time more productively.

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