I was playing the guitar just now and noticing how my left pinky, when not in use, curls up into a gimpy little ball, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And it made me remember one time a year or so ago when I was playing the guitar for a boy I liked, and I’m all nervous and sweaty-palmed like, “This is it, I’d better be good so he’ll keep liking me and think I’m awesome,” and then I’m thinking, “Wow, this sounds really good; go me!” and I noticed that he was watching my hands and figured he was impressed by my fancy fingerwork and was probably falling in love with me because of it. But instead when I finished the song, all he said was, “Wow, you have really long fingers.” And suddenly instead of feeling proud I just felt embarrassed, because all along he’d just been sitting there mesmerized yet horrified by the car accident that was my comically long Jafar fingers: fingers that probably gave him nightmares at night; fingers that are attached to giant hands made more ridiculous by their juxtaposition with my teeny tiny wrists.

So I was thinking about that just now, and then I remembered a time long before, when I was in high school and visited a new friend’s house for the first time. The minute I stepped onto the big, sweeping porch (we’ll call it a “vast veranda” for effect), I was already feeling insecure, wishing he had never seen my little plain-jane house. He took me on a grand tour of the premises, ending at his room, which was pretty much a tower, with windows lining the walls on three full sides. It was stunning, but when he asked what I thought, all I could manage was a nonchalant “It’s nice,” like, “Whatever, I am sooooo not impressed; I eat houses like this in my cereal with sliced bananas as part of my complete breakfast.”

My point is, and I know we all know this; we’ve all heard it a thousand times, but for some reason it just now finally clicked with me: Insults stem from insecurity most of the time. Insecurity because the insulter is threatened by the insultee, because something the insultee has or is doing is better. It’s so much better that it’s scary to the insulter. So it must be pretty good. And that means that when someone is insulting me, it might mean I’m on the right track. It might be a sign that I should just keep going, keep doing what I’m doing, but more so.

I’m sure you’re like, “Um, Really, Marcy, you’re just now figuring this out? Duh, this is the most obvious fact in the universe.” Well, yeah, I don’t know, suddenly it just makes a lot of sense because I have practical things to apply it to. In any case, I finally get it, and I think this knowledge is going to help me a lot. And if it doesn’t, that’s cool, too; I’ll just find a genie and wish to become the most powerful sorcerer in the world! Mwahahahaha!


One Response to Insults

  1. Wan says:

    Insults are just sad, I agree. It does not make the insulter look good; it makes them look bitter. Mwahahahahaha!

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