Annoyance

I spend too much of my time in a state of annoyance. I can do very little about some of the things that put me in a state of disturbance. The pills I get off the shelf to help me deal with my self-diagnosed hypersensitivity are not covered by insurance. But without them I go through the day (and night) quite uncomfortable as the itchiness comes with a vengeance.

Being self-aware and mindful of public perception, I am careful to not scratch and rub when others are in attendance. Other than a thoughtful beard rub, many erratic motions by a person can get that person removed from fine dining establishments and other places of importance.

I am unaware of being allergic to anything, but I am, however, keenly aware of things that throw me off balance. I don’t think loud noises, a drawer left open, or clothing that constricts qualify as allergens, yet they make me uncomfortable for instance.

Most often I am not bothered by an aroma or a fragrance. I also try not to judge a book based on its appearance. But, too often I am less patient with an acquaintance. It’s not that I feel superior or want to be perceived as having a unhealthy dose of arrogance. Rather, I find some traits and characteristics outside my current level of tolerance. I admit it’s not their fault, it’s my own petulance.

Someone who interrupts others in a conversation may be just trying to demonstrate their own significance. Certainly, if I keep that in mind I can exercise some tolerance. Even though it’s easier to change myself than others, occasionally all that is required is a little distance.

Also, I don’t like to hear another complain or speak a negative utterance. Although I pretend to be above such things, if I were to hear my own words, I couldn’t feign ignorance. It’s always easier to offer others suggestions and guidance. But with all our talking I doubt few of us would find any reflection of perfection in the mirror, not even a close resemblance.

If it isn’t obvious by now, let me point out that I have many faults and admit them with great reluctance. Along with the things that bother me I can obsess incessantly about something and get caught in a pattern of redundance. Clearly, I don’t want everyone to be like me, of that you have my assurance. Instead, I write about these things to point out my shortcomings and my need for your assistance.  

We are who we are for reasons that are not always obvious, and we need to celebrate our differences and not treat them as a poisonous substance. If being hypersensitive means that wool and people can rub me the wrong way, then I will serve it as my penance.

For those of you who somehow tolerate me and my uniqueness I offer my gratitude, albeit a small pittance. For those of you who have somehow managed to read this entire essay and have now reached the end I can hear you say, “Good Riddance!”