“Mary Fucking Poppins.”

In contemplating my inaugural blog for this site, I found myself growing increasingly pensive. With what topic should I begin? What impression should I make? There’s much to talk about in the news, I’ve several social activism subjects close to my heart, I’ve even got a topic in law or two that I think might be of general interest. These kinds of topics all require research and drafting, though, and that seemed daunting – I’d already been procrastinating on a daunting professional project, and there I was, procrastinating on a personal project as well.

Before Sarah approached me about writing a Pittsburgh lady blog together, I’d been ruing the fact that I no longer blogged on my own. I had previously been a MySpace blogger (yes, 100 years ago), and then I had graduated to my own website (some blogs from which I plan to repost here, as I still think they are of their interest and enjoyable). An entire website had proven too time consuming, and I don’t know that it got much traffic anyway. My blogging lapsed. Blogging, of course, it must be said, is not a necessity – everyone enjoys a little narcissism, and are usually willing to indulge it in others, but it’s not as though there is an audience hungering for my thoughts on the tyranny of other people’s Facebook posts, the awful, interminable nature of basketball, or the former Pope’s beatification. Nevertheless, I am actually a trained writer (and a big Fuck You to the University of Michigan, but that’s a subject for another day), and I always have a vague sense that I should be writing, though it’s not really a pursuit of mine anymore, excepting academic work.

I had conceived a blog that I might begin myself. In my head, I had already titled it “The Duncan Street Palimpsest” and I planned to make it a repository of many projects and meanderings I wished to undertake. For instance, I am constantly saying that I will cook more, and so I thought I could do recipe blogs; I am constantly saying that I want to improve my knitting skills, and so I thought I could chronicle my crafting challenges; similarly, I am constantly asserting my desire to learn to sew, to garden, and to in general undertake the kind of betterment of self through skill acquirement that ambitious bloggers have been documenting for years now as they cook their way through massive tomes, recycle rubber bands into minidresses, and create communities for social justice activism and fatshion haute couture.

The problem, of course, is that I almost never undertake these projects. There are all sorts of explanations that a casual observer might surmise to be the cause of this inaction – laziness, fearfulness of failure, a variety of other unpleasant character traits.

As to fearing failure: meh. I’m pushing 30 and haven’t yet earned enough money, total, over my lifetime, to qualify for social security. I have two degrees I don’t use, I’m overdue on pretty much every bill, and none of this troubles me at all. I don’t pluck my eyebrows or shave my legs, and my dining room is filthy at the moment. I’ve got a different sense of the word failure than other people do, let’s say.

In my further defense, let me say that I am lazy, but not when I find the work to be important or enjoyable. I’m a good employee (I teach part-time), I’ve donated hundreds of hours of my time in the past to local political campaigns, I devote time to my own academic pursuits, and I read in my spare time with an eye towards what I hope is my intellectual improvement – nonfiction on various subjects, classics of literature, et cetera. But, true enough, I am sometimes lazy: if the task seems thankless or unimportant – say, that time I worked answering phones for a living – I do the bare minimum, if that. I don’t feel bad about this, either; my time and energy are finite and precious to me, and I see no reason to fritter them on anything other than what I personally wish. “Pride in a job well done,” without taking into account the nature of the job, is a capitalist lie inculcated in the working classes (blue- and gray-collar) to discourage them from refusing to work at degrading tasks for the enrichment of others, and I’ve no truck with that, thank you.

Still, learning to knit or sew, gardening, cooking, deploying my writing to the work of a worthwhile activist community, expressing myself through art or photography or music … these are not thankless or unimportant tasks. Many people undertake them with joy in their hearts and soon see gratifying results. And yet …

Well, a friend of mine put her finger on the problem quickly and succinctly: “You don’t want to do that shit. You just want to be the sort of person who does that shit. You want to be Mary Fucking Poppins.”

I think she’s right; I think, in the cases of many of my ambitions, I don’t actually want to do that shit – I just want to be the sort of person who does. Who doesn’t want to move through the world productively and creatively, mindful and ever-improving, delighting in the growth of skills and the expansion of interests, and receiving the just accolades of all who bear witness to their march of progress?

Except that shit’s hard. And there’s school, work, housekeeping (shudder), maintaining personal relationships, errands … and then I’m supposed to exercise, follow the news, do the basics that a human is supposed to do, I guess, and frankly, once all or at least a respectable amount of that is accomplished, I want to sit on my ass and read a book with a cat in my lap. Go to the bar. Go on a date. Take a fucking nap.

Still, I’m not a child, and I should make myself do some of the shit done by the people who are the sort of people who do that shit. I should write thoughtfully and undertake some of those projects; I should improve myself before I’m dead (though why I should do this, I can’t quite say).

Sarah says I’m completely thwarting the premise of this blog, which is meant to be the solution to both she and I feeling overwhelmed trying to take on bigger and more extensive blogging projects. Just write something. Toss something off. Whatever’s on my mind, it doesn’t have to be a project. That’s good advice. And you see, today, I’ve taken it – this blog required no research, no drafting, and no careful consideration whatsoever, nor did it require me to knit, sew, cook, read, watch, visit, learn, or work in general. High fives all around?

Still, in the future, I’d like to, y’know, maybe try to do some stuff. So if you see me blogging about falteringly attempting accomplishment, pat me on the back, internet-style. But if you also see me running on about where I just had dinner, y’know … don’t hold it against me. We can’t all be Mary Fucking Poppins.

2 thoughts on ““Mary Fucking Poppins.”

  1. I am reminded of a writing class back in college where the (grad student) teacher admitted to us that she didn’t actually like writing, but rather only liked having written. I remember that I instinctively disagreed with her, because when I’m immersed in a chapter and the creative juices are flowing and/or I’m working a future scene out in my head, playing with possibilities, I find it an inherently enjoyable experience.

    But your blog introduced in my mind the possibility of a further level, which would be “I like telling people that I have written,” or “I like the notoriety (however small) of being a writer” (of course, “writer” is being used in the abstract now to stand in for any particular hobby or pursuit). So my question to you is, when you say “I don’t actually want to do that shit – I just want to be the sort of person who does,” do you crave the self-satisfaction of accomplishing the tasks? Or are you most interest in “receiving the just accolades of all who bear witness to their march of progress”?

    I’m curious because when thinking about tasks like cooking and sewing (the latter especially), I certainly understand the preference of “having done” to doing. The actual tasks can be quite drudger-ous, but I feel compelled to do them, not by the promise of accolades (though the mild and earnest compliment is appreciated), but rather for my personal enjoyment of the product. I enjoy a lot of my own cooking better that some restaurants. I often prefer my own clothes (desired colors, length, fit, etc) to store bought. Often when people find out about my multiple hobbies and gush over what they see as my “jack of several trades” acumen, it makes me uncomfortable.

    So, I’m curious as to what character your desire for the “having done” takes on? Outside accolades? Personal satisfaction? A little of both?

  2. I think it’s both, actually. I find something really appealing about the idea of being the sort of person who can do the things that I admire other people for doing. I really admire your seamstress-ing: you have mastered a tricky skill and you get to reap the rewards in the form of nice clothes. I really admire my mother’s gardening: she can keep all these little green things alive and happy! They flourish, they’re pretty, they make the Earth better in their own right, as well as improving the lives of birds, bees, and onlookers. How great to have the satisfaction of self-sufficiency! To be able to sew myself a nice cotton knit dress and knit myself a scarf to go with it, to be able to grow my own tomatoes to turn into a tasty sauce … when I imagine how it would feel to be the sort of person who can knit a sweater or play the piano or bake a damn fine cake, I imagine that it feels awesome and self-satisfied.

    Also, I would totally blog about all of these endeavors, thus inviting praise: dudes, look how awesome I am! That might make me a dick.

    The problem, as you sort of point out, is that these activities are not really pleasant, sometimes: sewing is a drudge, gardening is dirty and hot and tiring, knitting is exacting in the same way as baking – everything has to be *just so* for it to come out right, and I’m terrible at shit like that. And yet, my mom likes to garden – actively enjoys the dirty, hot, tiring parts of it. Others really enjoy the act of knitting. My friend Mark loves to bake – he bakes constantly, even though he works full-time. Etc.

    I wonder why I don’t enjoy things the way other people do. I would certainly enjoy their outcomes – I really think I’m going to make the go at sewing (see my recent pants rant) – but I wonder why I have to force myself to do these things where others enjoy them as processes. Really all I enjoy *doing* is reading and sometimes writing. With cooking I enjoy the outcome enough to put up with the work, sewing would hopefully be the same; I’m not sure if I would enjoy a homemade sweater enough to go through the boring process of knitting one. But why don’t I like to do shit, as opposed to just liking the end result of doing it?

    Yet another personality flaw, it seems.

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