I’ve been a bit… missing in the blogosphere lately. It’s really hard to not feel like a massive failure, to be honest. I look at these amazing other bloggers, and see how their pages have more likes, they have more fans, they have paid work coming through… and here I am in Newcastle, living opposite a park with random wandering bulls, writing to a small (but distinguished) audience.
Another example of failuredom that I’m feeling at the moment revolves around a small white dog named Harry. He had a haircut this week and is handsome as all buggery. Here he is:
You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but this handsome little lad loves to run in the park. As fast as he absolutely can. And on the weekend, my sister took him running. Oh Harry’s little legs propelled him around the park like a hound possessed. He had a glorious time!
Then my sister had to go back home, and the reality of disappointment hit: Harry’s mummy Kel cannot run. Mummy Kel is still waiting for ankle surgery. Mummy Kel is left feeling somewhat useless when it comes to meeting the athletic needs of a small white dog. My beautiful beloved takes him for a run while I throw the ball for Scouty, which is a really good solution.
But why can’t I do that?
Obviously, because my ankle is screwed.
That’s the thing about failure, I suppose – you never really feel it until you start comparing yourself to other people.
So here’s an approach I’m trying on for size.
I’m glad I am not as hairy as Scouty.
I’m glad I am not as smelly as those vomit flowers that only bloom once a year.
I’m glad I am more useful than the little pockets that some old-school underpants have on them.
At least I’m not a rectal thermometer!
I’m so proud of myself for not deciding to run with Harry and leading us both, at best, under a truck and at worst, through one of the many cow pats that now reside in the park.
Things could be worse.
Do you ever feel this way? How do you snap out of it?