One more day and it’s over. I am no fan of the rock station in the gym, it’s just something that’s there, but at least they haven’t inflicted “Silent Night” on me… until this morning, when they cranked up a Jimi Hendrix version. I should not have to hear that when I am holding heavy things.
Honestly, when presented with this iconic MOTHER AND CHILD event that gobsmacks the Christian world and a whole lot of people who don’t really believe in it literally, this is what I see:
(1) a helpless, vulnerable, but nonetheless noisy, nasty-smelling and tiresome creature which will not be fit to be around in anything other than random fits and starts for another ten years, and that’s with luck;
(2) a person who has, due to the irony of evolution in giving us big brains and upright-standing narrow pelvises, had her body turned into a walking pustule and then torn apart from the inside out to produce (1), and who has very likely been told by her social cohort that it is her only value and role in life to excrete and then care for it, mostly unassisted — a predicament which has been traditionally used to inflict semi-slave status on the female half of humanity;
(3) who could not possibly feel other than seething resentment as a result, which she will take out on this vulnerable being in whatever way she can for as long as she can, even if she has to pretend to herself and everyone else that it’s “love.”
To me this is the real curse of human existence, probably the main reason we are so messed up as a race, and it’s something to be mourned and overcome, not celebrated. Yet every year this central horror of how we come to be on this earth gets rubbed in our faces as the pivot of mystical exaltation. And people wonder why I get crankier about it every year, and take refuge in looking up at the sky and retreating from people.
The light starts to get longer in another day. More important, the noise stops.