Striking writer

Well, I would like to tell you that in an act of solidarity for the writers of WGA, I have been honoring the picket lines with my blogs. However, I am not a member of WGA and the one union I do belong to (AFTRA) is in a spat with WGA over some unkind words they put out about Ellen Degeneres. Besides, that's not why I have not written.

I have a predilection for self-pity and occasionally, it shows itself in bouts of long naps. Now, don't get me wrong, naps are perhaps the greatest thing ever. Dogs nap all day, and most people spend their entire lives trying to be more like dogs ... well, men do at least. However, recently my naps have been what I have been doing rather than blogging. Anyway, I thought I would was eloquent on the subject of naps or depression or unions or Ellen. Instead, I will talk about sensitivity.

I am a sensitive guy. I don't mean that like Alan Alda sensitivity or Phil Donohue sensitivity, oh no this is much worse. I am touched by Hallmark commercials and sad moments in chick flicks. I seem to feel things pretty deeply and I think my son does as well. I must assume that most men are able to go through their days without feeling every slight and every negative experience. I assume that they must not empathize with almost everyone they encounter, from the homeless guy to the woman who just lost her job to the teen whose heart was just broken. If they feel these things, they are much better at not showing it and not being affected by it. My day to day interaction with life is just an excercise in pulling the scabs off my emotions. I don't know, maybe no one can see this either and I am deluding myself into believing that I am different.

I grew up being told that I was different, both in a good way and a bad way. I see myself as set apart from most of humanity, not better or worse, just a little different, askew or off. In fairness, as my bio would suggest, my life has been pretty average, pretty middle America. It is accentuated by tragedy and comedy, but the framework is pretty ordinary. Perhaps I am just like everyone else but can not see it. I don't know if that brings me comfort or angst. I guess I will never really know whether I am like others in the way I view reality, or in my sensitivity. The definitive answer is inside someone else's head and I can not get it. For in order to know if I am truly different, I would have to experience daily life in someone else's life. I would need to see what they see and fell what they feel. Would I want to do that if I could? I guess that would definitely be different.