Remember when I bought some really loud yarn for my dad’s birthday present? Well, it’s been turned into a truly garish scarf:
I’m sorry. Is the sarcasm too much?
I’m not sorry. Sarcasm is my life’s blood.
I suppose that’s a rather narrow description of my life’s blood, but seriously, if I had to be earnest all of the time… well, I’d just rather not be.
Nonetheless, I sometimes think I’m more earnest than I ought to be. Like when I tell you that I’ve been berating myself for the last 15 hours or so, ever since I took that scarf off the blocking mat and realized that it still smelled – much too strongly – of the soap I washed it in. I had soaked and rinsed and soaked and rinsed and still it smells of Dr. Bronner’s. And this broke my heart, because I wanted to mail it this morning, to make sure that it got to my father in time for his birthday.
His birthday, when I feel terribly guilty that I am thousands of miles away from my family, when I am reminded that who knows how many more birthdays my parents will have? When I know that there are probably not too many birthday gifts coming his way from this scattered family, and I wanted very much to send something that showed how much I love him and hope to keep him warm.
It’s that kind of earnestness, I think, that keeps me from being anything other than what I am – a quiet person with a small life. Sarcasm may be my life’s blood, but saying too much that is true is my daily bread.