Name my newest boxing partner.

Today I want to write about failure.

Not about, though I do recommend it for a good laugh.

Not about the failure of the Islamic Republic of Iran or #cnnfail and the inspiring use of social networking tools to communicate when major media conglomerates like CNN don’t step up. (There’s so many amazing bloggers out there already doing a great job writing about this.)

Nope. Instead I’ll continue with some naval-gazing self-reflection on failure.

But not without continually remembering how grateful and privileged I am to be living in the US, a country whose political stability depends on the instability of others. My parents decision to go on vacation in 1979, literally in the weeks before the last revolution in Iran started, allows me to sit around and muse about art and personal feelings in a way that my peers who are dieing in the streets of the city of my birth cannot.

Boxing Matches

Part of the reason I haven’t posted a blog entry in so long is because I’ve been busy in an international heavy-weight championship boxing match against the eternal champion team failure.

What’s that boxing match look like?

Not eating well even though I have a full fridge of beautiful locally grown organic vegetables from my CSA share.

Creating drama this past week and trying my hardest to convince some of my closest friends and my newish manfriend that they don’t care about me.

It was ugly.

And even though the match is over, I’m still nursing bruises with salve and walking a little funny.

Jenny Any

It’s embarassing to admit, but even though I’m this smarty arty bad ass brown girl, there’s a part of me that wishes I was some blonde white girl named Jennifer married to some dude, and working a professional job.

I think a lot of us have that inside us somewhere.

I usually keep my Jenny Anykind (that what we used to call all the Jennifers in high school, when I was an angsty Winona Ryder in “Heathers” wanna be) on a very short leash. She might make an annoying yip every once and while, but mostly she has little control over me.

So it was really confusing when I woke up from a concussion mid-boxing match with this other monster creature on her team.

“You are a financial failure and you are about to make it worse by quitting your job during a recession. Rawr” Punch.

You are unable to focus. You are lazy and selfish. While everyone else in your family works hard you try to be an artist. Grr.” Kick to the chest.

What’s your name?

I don’t know how to label this particular stream of sense of failure. I know it has something to do with class and expectations.

Most of the running dialogue in my head that’s had me so down has been around this issue of failing to be willing to lead a “professional” and “financially successful” life.

Most of that comes from being from a well-education middle class (upper-middle class?) family where everyone is an engineer, doctor, computer programmer or business man.

But the “distorted class expectations creature” isn’t that catchy, and doesn’t really work for me as a mental visualization like Jenny Anykind did.

Any ideas?


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