Specialness

If life were a movie, I’d be worse than a supporting character, I’d be an extra. I’d be one of the first to have succumbed and end up being a zombie – and not even a special one, I’d be one in the pathetic crowd of bumfuzzled zombies. 

If life were a movie, I’d be worse than a supporting character, I’d be an extra. I’d be one of the first to have succumbed and end up being a zombie – and not even a special one, I’d be one I the pathetic crowd of bumfuzzled zombies. 

If I was on Star Trek, I might be lucky enough to be the red shirt guy who gets beamed to the other planet with Spock and Kirk but, more likely, I’d end up being one of the folks back on the Enterprise passing wordlessly behind the stars talking in the hall.

In the news, I’d be one of the hundreds missing or dead in the latest earthquake, tsunami, or tornado. 

As a slightly overweight, not exceedingly bright, not exceedingly creative, middle aged woman I am just one of the masses. 

I’m certainly not the star and I’m not young enough or witty enough to be the best friend. I could be the mindless mom with the oatmeal personality. Of course that beats being the middle aged woman who is unsuccessfully trying to keep her youth.  I don’t want to be the 58 year old woman in the miniskirt and boots, not even if I had the stretched skin face and balloon lips to go with it. 

And I’m too clueless to be the older woman filled with worldly wisdom and insightful comforting answers.  

I’m just so normal, so average, so nothing. 

Again, that beats other things. I’m not the gossipy busy body or the judgmental Bible thumper (although I am unashamedly Christian).  I’m also not the crazy murderous old woman or the needy mom who calls and whines on a daily basis while interfering with her children’s lives. 

I am not particularly bad but I am also not particularly good. I am absolutely unremarkable. I am not particularly anything except particularly nothing. And I find this an incredible surprise as well as shocking disappointment. I am NOT special – at all.

For so long I thought I was. I thought there were qualities in me that might make me the one person who lived to tell about it when the world catastrophe happened or that would excite some subconscious interest in those around me with my incisive observations or abilities to convert thought and experience into word.  I thought perhaps there might be some sort of underlying glamour in my oddly and (I thought) singular view of the world. But there is none of that. I am no more special than the next person nor will my life contain any special and unique experiences, knowledge or insight. 

This realization does not come from a place of depression. It comes from a sense of reality and understanding. I am obviously not thrilled with this truth but I’m also not ”speaking” it out of a desperation to hear arguments from others regarding how ”special” I am or how ”everybody is special” because I am fully aware that everybody is special. I emphatically believe everybody is special when they stand on their own, but very few are special when they are in a crowd. Just as when you are sitting on an airplane looking out the window, the maintenance guys have unique features and differences.  When you begin to speed down the runway, they’re just a mass of maintenance guys. As you rise into the sky, they’re ”little people” and, once you’re in the air, they don’t even seem to exist anymore. 

The interesting thing about specialness, however, is that I have a suspicion that there are many people who feel as I do. There are many that would like to stand out and many who feel the world is somehow overlooking their unique qualities and talents. That is why there are little parables out there about how the job of the hand is just as important as the job of the head and why sermons regarding the ”Drum Major” syndrome hit home with so many. Thing is, Martin Luther King may have warned us about that syndrome but, come on, some of us humans actually are the ”Drum Majors.” King certainly was. His specialness may have caused him an early death but when you watch those old clips, who do you look at, him or the guy in the third row, five people from the left?  Well, I’m the person who didn’t even make it to the speech. That’s how much of a background character I am. 

Others have written about seeking specialness in amazing blog entries, essays, and compositions.  They’ve written  with wisdom and words that demonstrate their own, unacknowledged talent and specialness. But it’s a very different thing to have the ability to be special yet decline than it is to know inside you couldn’t have it even if you wanted it. 

My un-specialness is sometimes comforting, sometimes funny, sometimes sad but mostly my un-specialness is also quite unimportant to anybody else. 

f maintenance guys. As you rise into the sky, they’re ”little people” and, once you’re in the air, they don’t even seem to exist anymore. 

The interesting thing about specialness, however, is that I have a suspicion that there are many people who feel as I do. There are many that would like to stand out and many who feel the world is somehow overlooking their unique qualities and talents. That is why there are little parables out there about how the job of the hand is just as important as the job of the head and why sermons regarding the ”Drum Major” syndrome hit home with so many. Thing is, Martin Luther King may have warned us about that syndrome but, come on, some of us humans actually are the ”Drum Majors.” King certainly was. His specialness may have caused him an early death but when you watch those old clips, who do you look at, him or the guy in the third row, five people from the left?  Well, I’m the person who didn’t even make it to the speech. That’s how much of a background character I am. 

Others have written about seeking specialness in amazing blog entries, essays, and compositions.  They’ve written  with wisdom and words that demonstrate their own, unacknowledged talent and specialness. But it’s a very different thing to have the ability to be special yet decline than it is to know inside you couldn’t have it even if you wanted it. 

My un-specialness is sometimes comforting, sometimes funny, sometimes sad but mostly my un-specialness is also quite unimportant to anybody else.