Frigid, or my otherwise lack of passion
When I think of the most important people in my life, they are usually associated with their loves–love of children, love of baseball, love of reading, love of Star Wars. I have no such loves. Perhaps the most I’ve got going for me is I’ve read all of the completed written novels of Jane Austin. But even my co-worker’s wife beats me as she’s read biographies, critical analysis, and seen all of the movies of Jane Austin books.
My boyfriend is a wonderland of information about music, popculture, and movies. My co-worker is an avid James Bond, Indian Jones, Star Wars, and soccer fan. My friend from college is an artist and has nurtured his artistic nature with knowledge about art, art history, politics, popculture, and wikipedia. I have noticed in my life a strange lack of any consistent, or sustained interest in any one thing. Sure I have all three Gidget moves (on VHS), but I never watched the tv show and have no trivia knowledge of the history of Gidget. I don’t watch any tv show religiously, am not passionate about one music genre, and could care less whether or not the Lakers win the NBA Championships. I watch CSI the most out of all tv shows, but please, do not give me a CSI tshirt for Christmas, or the episodes on DVD because I will not wear it or watch them again.
What is wrong with me? I love lots of things! My facebook profile can attest to it: sunshine, moving, reading, jogging, cooking, clutch and throttle (a tribute to earning my motorcycle license), and of course writing. I used to think Africa was my passion. African history in particular and human rights in general were of the greatest concern to me in college. However, after life hit me over the head more than a few times, my interest was wandered much closer to home.
Instead of Africa I think about the homeless man I give change to and who takes that as an invitation to hold my hand. I think of how the public transportation system in Los Angeles is horrible, and am amazed I used it exclusively for two years. I wonder about politics, health care, education, and whether people with mental illnesses should have places they can live where they lead as independent lives as possible, without drowning in medical bills and losing themselves to the fog of mysterious voices and uncontrollable emotions.
These aren’t exactly interests that can win me a spot on Jeopardy, or Beauty and the Geek (the reality tv show I would most like to be in). Instead, I am contemplating a life ahead of me distinct only in its lack of all-consuming passions. While maybe this shouldn’t be as depressing as it sounds in my head, my lack of interest scares me because it means I will never be great. I will not be the next great yo-yo champion, or the premier expert on Haruki Murakami. Anything I will be, will be due to some accident of fate or stroke of good luck. That idea doesn’t make me feel good.
