So now I am writing an article to complain about how much I complain.
Yesterday afternoon, suffering from the effects of a Thanksgiving feast induced semi-comatose state, I took a look back at my writings and social media postings over the past year. This was prompted by reading post after post of the things people were thankful for, and I decided to do a little inward examination.
My conclusion, despite the many things I have to be thankful for myself, was that I do too much complaining. Complaining is easier than fixing the problem, as most of you already know. And it is easier to get fired up about something you wish to complain about than it is for some of the everyday things that go your way and sometimes fail to be recognized.
Still, I complain too much. I complain about illegal immigration, paying taxes, statues being torn down, election fraud, Russian collusion (and others complaining about Russian collusion), movies being too loud, and being unable to hear dialog in movies.
I complain about the high cost of a ticket to a sporting event, the cost of my cable and internet bill, the traffic on the road, and the crowds in the stores when my wife takes me shopping.
I complain about a 19-year-old kid who drops a third-down conversion pass or misses a crucial free throw at the end of a game. I complain that the coach should have known better and should have had another player in the game at that moment. Of course, that play was not the one I would have called if I had been coaching anyway.
I complain about the time my physician spends with other patients, forcing me to waste my time waiting for him to see me, then I complain about the short amount of time he spends with me.
I complain about the high cost of healthcare, the cost of food at the grocery store, my utility bill, my cell phone dropping a call, waiting in line at a crowded restaurant, my clothes getting too tight around my waist, and when the price of gas goes up twenty cents in one day.
I complain when the President posts a dumb tweet, and then I complain about the media complaining about the President’s dumb tweet.
I actually even complain about fictional characters in a television show or movie that do dumb things and get themselves into more danger, when the obvious solution is so simple. Deep down inside I know they aren’t real, but that is the world I am living in for 60 minutes each week and I deeply care for these characters who don’t actually exist. I hate to admit this, but I sometimes find myself worrying about what happens to them after the series ends.
I even complained that my mother-in-law, who cooked the most outstanding Thanksgiving meal in the history of the civilized world, pushes me to eat more than I actually want to eat. (Under my breath, of course. I ain’t that stupid!) Talk about a first world problem!
Today, I read articles about children in other parts of the world, and some here in the US, that are starving to death or suffering from preventable diseases because of the lack of resources that we so readily take for granted, and, yes, even about which we complain.
How many of their parents would give all they own to have one of the aforementioned complaints as their biggest problem? How many of us consumed more in one meal yesterday than these people eat in a month?
I wish I could say this revelation will stop me from complaining so much, but it won’t. But it does make me realize how trivial our complaints and political differences are in the scope of the real world outside our heated and cooled homes, apartments, and offices.
Maybe we could just try to remember those less fortunate when we are so easily offended by someone’s words or actions. And we should ask ourselves, are our problems really as big as we make them out to be?