It is unfortunate that I alone possess all the sanity the world has to offer. I have tried to share it, but it’s like banging a square peg into a star-shaped hole, and the hole is actively resisting. It’s a lonely existence which is often accompanied by rum or – as I call it – That Which Softens the Constant Blows of Failure.
It can be hard sometimes.
I feel that had I ended it there, this post would have a nice poetic feel to it. But, I have a point to make and make it I shall, in the most verbose way possible.
Being the only sane person means I’m often accused of being the unreasonable one, but people doing the best to make the world a more unbearable place for everyone. For example, a friend of mine asked me why I get so worked up over other people’s actions that have no impact on my life when they’re doing no harm to anyone? How ridiculous is that?
If we let everyone do what they want, purely on the basis that they got some enjoyment out of it and it wasn’t hurting anyone, we may as well all lay down and die now. Down that path lies even more madness.
In this example, I was venting my frustration over the notion of the ‘gender reveal party’. For those of you that do not know what this ridiculous concept is, it is not a gathering in which Charlotte (formerly Charles) states who they truly are in front of open-minded and accepting loved ones. No, it is instead where a pregnant lady and (mostly but not always) he who did the impregnating gather in front of friends and family to reveal the chromosomes of their foetus. Usually, in the most over the top and inefficient ways. Balloons can be popped, revealing smaller coloured balloons (blue for boy, pink for girl). Flares can be lit with coloured smoke. Cake can be cut revealing a coloured sponge. Cylindrical party popper things can ejaculate coloured confetti all over the grandparents – probably a better choice of words there. Or the father can have coloured dye injected into them for a couple of weeks and then they can be ceremoniously decapitated, and the colour of the ensuing blood fountain would denote the sex.
It’s all so… so much.
It’s too much.
Once upon a time, a couple found out the sex of a child when it was born and the midwife yelled ‘It’s a boy!’ or ‘It’s a girl!’ at which point you’d furiously thrash them and say, ‘Don’t you dare assume my child’s gender you narrowminded relic of a bygone age!’ Or they’d say ‘it’s… it’s a… my god what is that?’ before being consumed by ‘It’.
Then science progressed to allow us to find out some time in advance. At which point we’d say, ‘we’re having a boy,’ and others would reply, ‘okay.’
If you’ve not had the misfortune of attending a gender reveal, you will have no doubt seen many videos on the various social webs. If you have, you will have seen those videos being recorded from every conceivable angle. You would have even waited patiently as an overbearing grandmother to be searches frantically for her phone, shouting ‘hold on, wait… I need my phone.’
Suggesting she instead enjoy and cherish the moment, and that many other people are filming it anyway, despite the fact that the only people that care is in that very room, simply gets you branded as a miserable sod who always has to ruin people’s fun. If you then suggest that there has to be some fun to begin with in order for you to ruin it, you get asked to leave.
Whenever I am invited to a gender reveal, I always say the same thing ‘It’s going to be one or the other.’ Which I always expect to be met with a realisation that the entire idea is absurd. All that fuss over some prospective genitals.
And it doesn’t necessarily replace the baby shower. No, many do both. It’s yet another symptom of the attention-starved looking for another excuse to have everyone look at them for a few brief minutes. Our love of likes from strangers on the internet has overpowered actual love. It is a perverse state of affairs where we fling what should be intimate affairs shared between a small group into the public eye.
It always reminds me of those clickbait videos. ‘The way this man proposes is the sweetest thing’. It’s always overblown, in public and most importantly, captured on camera. Which instantly means it is not the sweetest thing. It is manufactured entirely for the exposure. It’s egotism at its finest. To me, a gender reveal party is not a celebration of (soon to be) new life with friends and family. It’s a yell for attention, to be swallowed up in a void of people screaming for attention.
It’s a bit like writing a blog.
Some say I’m just jealous. That I have no one and therefore rage at those celebrating an important milestone in their journey with another, surrounded by those they love. To which I say, ‘Hello rum.’
It’s hard sometimes.