Hi, My Name Is Abby and I'm an Elitist

I am lucky in that I am good at a lot of things. I recognized this to some extent growing up, but have come to appreciate it more as I've aged. And like a good wine, I've only gotten better.

Conceitedness aside, I'm both blessed and, in some ways, cursed to have such ease with so many things. While I appreciate that I have an excellent grasp on (English) grammar, an easy time picking up academic pursuits (such as German, math [when it's explained/taught well], and chemistry), and artistic endeavors, I find it makes having good relationships with people more difficult. And if there's one thing I'm definitely not good at to begin with, it's being social.

The existential skeleton.

Typically when I visit my boyfriend, I draw a picture on his giant whiteboard for him to enjoy once I've left again for school.  Yesterday I realized it had been the same for a while, so I decided to put up something new.  I erased the old drawing and started on a skeleton who, with one hand on his un-fleshy hip and the
other scratching his head, looked up at all of the comments and plans on data analysis my boyfriend had written on the board and said, "What does it all mean?"

I thought this was hilarious. In my mind, the skeleton wasn't only asking about what the items on the board meant (can drawings read? can skeletons?) but was asking about what everything -- that is, life, the universe, and everything if you've read Hitchhiker's Guide -- means. And it was funny that a skeleton -- a being that is dead, that no longer exists -- was having an existential crisis.

Maybe I'm just good at amusing myself.

Once I finished the drawing, I looked over it and was pretty pleased. Given that I had only worked with one dry erase marker and a whiteboard, it was pretty good. Maybe I could make a career of it, if I cared enough.

I drew a lot when I was in middle school. During one math class, I sketched away at a little elf-ish boy in my notebook. The math teacher addressed me from his desk (from which he often taught, which I now realize was kind of odd and lazy) in front of the class.

"Abby, what are you doing?"

I didn't think it was such an issue that I was drawing. I was getting an A, regardless of how much I paid attention. Math was boring to me and I paid attention most of the time anyway.

"Drawin'," I answered shyly. As much as I disagreed with being called out, I was a goody-two-shoes and incredibly uncomfortable with getting in trouble. I still am, which explains why I'm so judgmental of people who don't follow the rules. I always worry how their lack of respect to the law, policy, or whatever it may be, will affect me.

The teacher asked me to put it away and I did, resentfully.

So I drew a lot. It never really amounted to anything. I have several full sketch books with lots of emo drawings -- some of made up people, many of favorite band members in favorite bands, some guitars I "designed."  Now I doodle sometimes, or draw pictures for cards that I send to family members, but that's the extent of my visual art career.

I won several coloring contests when I was young, too. One of them got me a pumpkin or something at a local farm where we always got our pumpkin for Halloween.  Another got me a gift certificate to Toys - R - Us, which I used to purchase a bicycle.

In tenth grade, I received honorable mention for a state-wide Constitution Day essay contest. The following year I won the school-wide contest. They said they were going to submit it to the state-wide consideration from there so I didn't bother submitting it. I don't think they ever did.

I've been recognized for various academic achievements, I've been published in a legitimate magazine, I've been published on the NPR website.  My work is continuously validated by "people who would know."  Yet

I remain not confident of my abilities.

In school, I worry that I am not at the same intellectual level as many of my classmates. I sometimes feel myself falling behind in discussions, wondering what they mean by post-modernism and transcendentalism. I sometimes then decide they don't know what they're talking about, either. But maybe they do.

I can spit out the quadratic formula in no time, and I can even use it -- but ask me when, in a real-life situation, it would be appropriate to use it, and I'd freeze like a popsicle.

Despite these feelings of inadequacy (or maybe because of) I frequently catch myself correcting and judging people for doing things incorrectly on the things I can do well. Grammar has always been an issue with me. While my grammar is certainly not perfect, I recognize that my abilities with the English language are often greater than that of the people who surround me. I mean, of course, no offense with either correcting people or pointing this out here. Other people are far more adept at plenty of things that I'm not. I am sometimes painfully aware of this.

I admit I'm an elitist. I admit that I am good at many things. But I also admit that I am imperfect.