classifications

Where do we all fit in? We’re always trying, even the non-conformists want to be in the category of not fitting into categories. Like everything else, you’re fucked either way. Our own worst critic, we’re constantly pushing ourselves into molds, fitting into stereotypes, and adjusting to expectations. It’s normal enough we sometimes don’t even realize we’re doing it.

My only grievance is when we do it to other people. And we all do, don’t think you’re the exception. I hate myself for categorizing someone, but I’ll shove the guy from the cell phone kiosk who always stares at my rear when I walk by into the creepy category. I’ll put Auto’s ex girlfriend into the bitch slot even though I’ve never met her. Sad that I do it? Sure. Actively harmful? No. It’s when you put someone in their place, even if they belong there, and it hurts them that draws my attention.

My sister’s boyfriend puts her in the ‘traditional obedient woman’ section when she’s much too strong-willed to take that up. This causes some tension at best, given she’s also relatively agreeable, but it’s no less volatile. My other sibling D just doesn’t take any bullshit. It’s scary sometimes, but my admiration grows the better her life becomes sans bullshit and misery. Go for it, sis.

Something else to tag on here–are we in any way related to this judgement? Is it something we do, or are time and circumstance simply details that make it easier and less noticeable to write someone off as whatever you see them as?

After how many failed relationships where nothing seemed to go wrong, I’ve got to wonder if it’s a societal standard, chance and fate I seem to frequent more often than feasible, or is that just the way I am? If the last is the case, how did that come about? I’m forgiving, understanding, and maybe expect a bit too much from what’s a good thing…but…

If ‘it’s not me it’s you’ is true, then what makes it okay to let all your frustrations and worries cumulate, take form, and put me up on a shelf until your mind clears, or you’re lonely enough to blow the dust off and bring me back to (your) life? Time after time, why is acceptable to look past me the person for me the thing–the thing you can take up at whatever convenience. How exactly did I wind up being disposable?