First World Problems and the Mantra of ‘Never Let ’em see you Sweat’

You know…

My life is pretty good.

And I don’t mean it in a rainbow-striped, Starbucks double latte w/whipped cream, fluffy kittens raining from the sky kind of way.

I mean it. Life is really good. I legitimately have no complaints anyone would care to hear. Or at least, none I’d ever dream of sharing…with anyone…ever. Complaining is for the birds, I usually think. The worst days of my life are probably better than millions of people’s best days. And so, knowing this, how could I (or anyone who’s aware of the whole first world problem viewpoint) complain?

We couldn’t. And we shouldn’t. Right?

So why then — why should I ever feel gloomy, despairing, or straight-up sorrowful? Like I do right now? Even as I write this? Why should I ever dream of reaching out to another person and sharing my sorrows?

We’ll get there. Bear with me.

First, here’s how good life is:

I’m a white guy. As in, the whitest of guys. And while I don’t buy the nonsense that white guys are responsible for most of the world’s evils, I do recognize all the advantages I have. I can go anywhere, and no one assumes I’m a criminal. I can’t get pregnant, which is particularly relevant in this age of politicizing women’s bodies. I can do pretty much anything I want without any real consequence. Any job I realistically desire, I can have if I put in the work. And yeah, it’s pretty nice being able to walk down the street, harassment free, judged only for the questionable quality of my tattoos.

No, it’s not just nice. It’s freedom…the way I wish everyone could have it.

Moreover…

I have great health. Really great. (Knock on wood, right?) I see and hear friends and strangers discuss their own health and the health of their loved ones, and I think to myself, Gosh, I’m really friggin’ lucky. Even if I developed some awful diagnosis tomorrow, I’ve already lived many years of ailment-free existence. I couldn’t complain. Life, like I said, has been too good.

Aaaaand…

I have food on my plate every night. Every. Single. Night. Sure, my family was poor when I was a kid, but ever since then I’ve never missed a meal. If I want to eat, I eat. If my son wants a second helping, I ask him, “Why not thirds?” In a world rife with starvation, malnutrition, food allergies, and other dietary struggles, I’ve been completely immune to it all. Lucky guy, right? Yep. Extremely.

And the big one…

I don’t have anxiety. Ever. And that’s saying something, since pretty much everyone else on the planet has it in some form or another. All my friends suffer from small or large anxieties. I’ve known people who couldn’t walk out their front doors without feeling the heavy pressure of the world on their shoulders. I’ve had friends whose entire lives are difficult because of the unbearable chemical agonies taking place inside their brains. I mean, just sign on to Facebook or Twitter…and you’ll see. Every other post illuminates the struggles felt by millions.

And here I am, anxiety-less. The luckiest guy ever. I should spend a week in Vegas, I’m so lucky. Even my worst day pales in comparison to what other people are going through. What would I ever have to complain about?

Nothing. That’s what.

And yet…

And yet…

Here I am, questioning the wisdom of never complaining. Because today…today was hard. And yesterday, too. And it’s days like these that test one’s ability to never complain. To never break down. To never let ’em see you sweat.

Right now, as in right now, I’m sitting alone in a hotel. My visit here (to a swanky hotel — yet another reason I can’t ever complain) was meant to be a solo writer’s vacation. The idea was this — me, a hotel room, my laptop, a few nice meals, and dozens of chapters in my latest novel written. When I told my friends about the trip, they looked at me like, “That’s a little weird, but a little awesome. Have fun.” And I was absolutely sure I would.

Because I’m lucky. I always have fun. Whether alone. With friends. Floating naked in outer space. Always.

But not today.

Today I’m sweating. Hurting. Dying more than a little inside.

All my friends think I’m having the time of my life…and they’ll never know otherwise. When I get back home, as far as my circle of friends is concerned, my trip will have been a complete success. Chapters in my novel will have been written (they weren’t.) Sights will have been seen (I’ve locked myself in my room.) Glorious interactions with the fine folk of southern Tennessee will have been had (they weren’t.)

Because this is how I’ve set it up. No complaints. Ever. Except to you, the internet at large, who knows me not.

Sometimes the whole ‘never let ’em see you sweat’ mantra is of dubious value.

Sometimes it’s painful.

Sometimes it feels downright stupid.

A few days ago, before I set off on this hermit-like writer’s trip, the woman I loved carved me out of her life. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Instantaneously. I mean, it was baaaaaaad. I’m sitting here, hammering out these words, but inside I’m a human wreck, a traffic accident of crushed hopes and annihilated feelings. And because of my mantra, I haven’t told anyone who knows me about it, nor will I, not anytime soon anyways. That I, the luckiest guy ever, should suffer a devastating anti-romantic blow…well…it can’t leave this room. This shiny, fancy hotel room. This fluffy-pillowed, chocolate mint left on the bed, sparkling clean hotel room. In which I’m lucky to stay, despite my cracked, broken, and smashed-to-bits heart.

It all stays here. In this small paradise. In this first world realm. Anytime something really bad happens in my life, this is how I handle it. Insulated. Isolated. Complaint free. Take my punches in the face and smile about it afterwards.

“First world problems,” I tell myself.

“This thing you’re going through, everyone else has, too.”

“So shut up and deal with it.”

And I will.

And it’ll hurt.

And yet…sometimes, on nights like this, I ask myself:

Is never letting ’em see you sweat the right mantra to have?

Or am I a friggin’ idiot?

Well?