Languaging matters. So. And yet? One - too oft - involuntarily eavesdrops upon a certain phrasing that practically drips off the mainstream tongue:
“He’s so talented; don’t ya just hate him?”
“She has style to spare; we’re so jealous.”
Unfortunately, such alleged ‘compliments’ are generally gender-coded. Attributes outside gender norms are not generally acknowledged, let alone affirmed. One struggles to recall the last time one heard:
“Damn, he sure can knit; don’t we hate his guts?” Grateful for the rarity here. Not quite sure what offense his entrails could commit - between purl one, knit two - to warrant so severe a curse. But hey.
“My Begonia Sweet Pea-s don’t bloom like his; makes ya pea-green with envy, huh?” Once associated with jealousy, a flavor is off. Nonetheless, one’s enjoyment of peas, especially split in soup, is unaffected.
This warped acquiescence to “hate”, within a shut-down shout-out, can be troubling enough. Further, this particular framing - all too common - implicates the listener, sans their permission, in the realm defined as the opposite of ‘love’. “Don’t you hate too?” The speaker assumes that the listener must. Only? Neither social agent hates in this context. Both are not in the grips of something but rather, the grace of it. Admiration.
If one might dare be so brazen as to attempt unpacking the unconscious: “I admire…” is what we actually mean. Is it not? What is admiration if not an admittance that we can be inspired by one another? To admire is to accept the unsolicited offering of being moved, daresay, taken higher. By another. ‘Inspired’ is centered ‘in’ the word, ‘spirit’ - for however that might, respectively, settle with the dear reader’s existential drift. We are all - at every, single moment, without fail - no more nor less than examples for one another. We are three signs interchangeably:
- what/how to be
- what/how not to be
- what/how/when to neutrally observe.
That’s it, really. Why complicate our greatest access to guidance - each other - with this inexplicable refrain? Why pervert inspiration? Our strengths - and execution of those strengths into accomplishments - are gifts that we share. Lights directing. Our weaknesses - and consequences of those weaknesses - are gifts of no less value. Blinking lights warning. Why do we not insist upon languaging that honors this invaluable social transaction? How is jealousy - even in jest - an accolade? For whatever else may fall woefully short of commendation, envy will still trump it.
We need not even look to some austere metaphor for life’s abundance. Las Vegas - where what happens stays - will do. Is life not an infinite Vegas buffet, with the promise to ever replenish opportunity for opportunities? Another’s seeming luck, aspirational trait, or ‘allure’ that draws an aware/evolved camaraderie, et cetera, is not the last sloppy, sinful square of tiramisu at the end of the dessert bar. And hell, what if it is? No amount of awareness that another may possess or evolution that another may traverse- within themselves or in relation - can compare to what we endeavor to attain on our own, in order to solidify the individuality of our original narratives. Infinite, baby! As for the finite? After all, tiramisu, tarte tatin, Waldorf salad, (With candied walnuts, never raw/ never roasted. Waldorf walnuts must be candied. Any home dinner party or paying establishment that does not candy their walnuts in their Waldorf? Well, we hate that, don’t we? Note: one indicts the act, not actor. ’Tis their piteous culinary ineptitude at fault, not them. Plus there ain’t nuttin to emulate here. C’mon, now.) Where were we in our enlightenment exercise? Tiramisu, tarte tatin, Waldorf salad and a multitude of edible ecstasies, upon which one is confident the dear reader can ruminate at will, are all concoctions originally derived from scant leftovers. Ironically enough. Ladyfinger biscuits turned to doorstops? Soak em. Soak em in what? That day-old expresso about to be tossed. Save the cheerleader; save the world? Nah, brah. Since the dawn of time, one thing, and one thing alone, has saved civilizations and planets yet discovered: mascarpone. And charitable speech.
Layer.
Chill.
Serve.
Orgasm.
One can always choose the latter, a crooked high-five, that speaks low, mouthing the heat of hate. It seethes in some corner. And corners are the only legal jurisdiction where seething is allowed. Contrarily, one’s viewpoint can be so much more vast. Free from limiting lingo, we can fully participate as our own inner Patrick Swayze-s, refusing to corner the rhythm of kindness. Aghast to find the best of ourselves anywhere but staged central, we can take our own words by the hand. We can lead our verbiage, train all summer, and try running and leaping - all to catch our ‘baby’ selves at that pivotal moment called ‘rising to the occasion’. Moreover, we can do so being ourselves, taking just who we are and what we have before us - tired biscuits and stale coffee. Granted, the flic musta edited out a tiramisu scene so pray your pardon for any metaphor cross-pollination. The issue, however, remains punctuated. Literally. Italian to English translation of tir·a·mi·su or tirəmēˈso͞o,-ˈmēso͞o/ : “lift me up”.
Would it be that food porn proves the most exploitative of envy but other sensory arousal-s make taste indulgences democratic. Take a certain sartorial appetite. Empty calories just as easily satisfy when balancing on an avante-garde exaggerated square toe. From Milan to London and Paris to New York, we have yet to be introduced to the shoe or bag, dubiously capturing the aesthetic mood ‘of’ that season…not to “covet”. If ever there be a singular descriptor in runway reviews. Less popular is ‘compulsively consume’ or ‘desperately consign’. Perhaps consumption and consignment are too normalized to titillate. Any guilt/shame there seems socially acceptable enough yet somehow above that communal acceptance of closet habits, is an expectation deemed ‘natural’, if not some form of reptilian default. To covet.
What — of purpose — are we promoting thru indulgence of spite and/or envy instead of inviting spoken ingenuity which prioritizes compassion? Can we imagine that utterance into being - statement as a landscape, ‘pea-green with empathy’? Then again? Known color need not apply for ‘utter’ beauty might defy any identifiable shade. Albeit one cannot confirm, one suspects that our coveting mode of conversation only diminishes the full spectrum of inspiration that one might be fortunate to receive. If such be so, why inhibit another’s capacity to lift our own potential? These are uncut gems in the cauldron at the rainbow’s end - precious nuggets angling glimpses, not glares, at human excellence. Languaging patterns permeate our atmosphere as if we are stirring up, salad tossing, conjuring, syllable by syllable, weaving spells throughout the coven that is our culture. Ours. We create it. Is our collective preference for raw digs at some comedic roast?
Candied, thank you. Please.
In our e-saturated society, why do we allow our spoken word - our bond - to sour the sweeter intention? Is the confinement of spite or envy preferred to the wonders of altruistic engagement? Brené Brown, PhD, is a pioneer in the academic study of vulnerability. Vulnerability may be associated with emotional risk at too much cost. What would we be risking, though, by messaging minus that tug at black kinks or red pigtail? Are we so uncomfortable with our micro crushes on one another’s earned skill or seemingly innate trait, that on the verbal playground, confused by the butterflies in our belly, we tug hair and run? Could just be gas from experimenting with expired mascarpone.
When one performs this most complicated task - that is existence - with a modicum of aplomb, should we not demand a vocabulary far more worthy? Our feats merit sonnets, not disses of spurned lovers or comic-book archenemies. Let us delight in the rare delicacies at our one, planetary table. Oddly, when eloquence is most required, one rehearses their words, writing multiple drafts, seeking counsel from poets and playwrights. But then? It is not unusual during the esteemed presentation of an award or intimacy of a wedding toast, for the speaker, in black tie, to read their meticulously selected homage: “how jealous” they are personally or “how much we all hate” the honoree. Prestigious aesthetics beguile yet the elegance of an affair may be best captured in how we articulate. What if we resolve to retire the back-handed for open palms? Like tarte tatin, we can ‘flip’ this, ya’ll.
What might shift in choosing the vulnerability of validation for what we, indeed, love? Options as ooey as gooey await - caramelized in praise untainted. May one suggest consideration of phrasing with a certain savior faire? Am usually ardently opposed to dissemination of unsolicited advise but since one does not know what savior faire means, this tip counts not. Just sounds more graceful. Bet one with savior faire says something elevated to the effect:
“Sure wish I could…[fill in impressed verb]…like her; she’s badass.”
The positive nod should include some form of soft profanity because even the elevated need not compromise the naughty.
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