Average Joe

Today it hit me how average I am. Not in like a low self-worth kind of way, just a realistic type of way. I’m average. Average intelligence, slightly funny, pretty weird, average looking, somewhat interesting, regular-person hobbies..just average. And I’m really ok with that, more than ok actually. I like to blend in with my surroundings and being average does not attract attention. I’m like one of those weird lizards that looks like the bark on a tree. Don’t know I’m there ’til I blink. Yeah, bark lizard. That’s what I strive to be.

Gregg saw me as a lot more. He put me on a pedestal, which was infuriating to me a lot of the time, but sometimes I miss his ridiculous praise. When I graduated from college, he hung my degree up on our living room wall. Right next to the TV, on a blank wall all by itself, sorely out of place. But he was so proud of me. When I took the GRE, he told everyone that I kicked its ass- really I only did “good enough” to get into the program I was applying for, but he saw it as such an accomplishment. He was always telling me what a catch I was and, to my horror, cat-calling me in public. He made me feel like the most beautiful woman on earth. Well, after Katy Perry, I always knew Katy was his #1. Whatever.

I normally don’t need validation from people, but after a semester of feeling like I was barely staying afloat, trudging through finals that I’m sure I bombed, and feeling the stark reality of the fact that I am an almost 30-year-old single Mom who is… unremarkable.. I could have used it from him today. And I wish that all the people I have around me who I know are cheering me on could fill that hole, but it’s just not the same. It’s kind of like Diet Coke. Like, yeah, it’s good, but is it ever really the same as the good stuff? No. It’s good for what it is, but it’s not the same. And sometimes it’s enough until you remember how good the real stuff is, and then it just feels like a watered-down version of what you’re really craving. Artificial.

And sometimes when people try to be my cheerleader, it’s just more painful. Oftentimes when someone celebrates with, I am immediately struck with the fact that Gregg is not celebrating with me. I’m sure it won’t always be that way. But that doesn’t sound appealing, either, because that would mean that I had forgotten when he would celebrate with me. *sigh*

One of my sweet widow friends from church asked me on Sunday how my husband was doing. I was confused at first. And then I didn’t know how to answer. I mean, I do think about how and what he’s doing, but she said it so matter-of-factly, like he had come down with a cold. It was refreshing. I know he’s busy. I know he’s sorry that he can’t be here, but not sorry that he is where he is. I know he’s still cheering me on, me and all my average-ness, wishing he could whistle at me from across the parking lot just to see me blush and give him a death glare.

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