Not in any real self-loathing, on-the-verge-of-suicide sort of way. No, I just find myself annoying. And irksome. And overbearing. And, without question, too negative (Dammit, stop nodding along with this list). I don’t like the way I avoid cheek kisses from my parents’ friends. I don’t like the way I always think I have some fatal disease. I don’t like the way I often think of Republicans (well, the really conservative ones) as dumb.
Mostly, I don’t like myself in the middle seat on an airplane.
Today, for example, I sat in the middle seat. On the right, my beautiful little daughter. On the right, a man who made horrible, horrible noises. When he slept, he snored. When he read, he burped and snorted and grunted. When he slept and when he read, he made this awful sound with his lips—sort of a saliva-influenced puckering. Man, do I l-o-a-t-h-e that sound.
So here’s what happens: Because the man makes these noises, and because he stole my arm wrest (which, via unwritten law, belongs to the middle occupant), I hate him. I detest him. I sit there, seething, wishing bad things upon him. Not bad things like, say, death. But bad things like a wedgie, or hair loss, or a missed taxi. Which isn’t cool. Because we all make noises. And snore. And grab that arm wrest.
Which is why I hate myself on airplanes.
Because I’m irrational.