You’re Not The Boss of ME!


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I’m generally a fairly low-key person.  Don’t laugh – it’s true.  I know  I have strong opinions about most everything but I am fairly easygoing and most often easy to get along with.  I  usually mind my own business and don’t judge others for their different views or lifestyles.

Why then is it that certain people feel compelled to  inform me that I am WRONG?  Not just wrong about something, but WRONG.  Wrong in who I am,  what I do, what I think, what I believe, and  how I behave or don’t behave.

Several years ago I was  called out in  the newspaper for a letter to the editor pertaining to an issue that was on the ballots.  I usually don’t say anything, but the  specific topic got my dander up.   NOT the issue so much as the people’s ignorance surrounding  it.  Voting was based on misconceptions,  and wrong thinking –  I mean wrong to the point of this is not scientific fact, they were basing their decision off something someone said with no evidence to back their claims while a little bit of research ( and you all know how much I love to dig into research) I found several sites that listed the  facts easily.

In this article I pleaded with the  people to become  informed of the facts,  and stop voting strictly based on party lines.  Well, of course  there was a rebuttal  – in which I was called a narrow-minded religious zealot.  Huh?  That didn’t even make sense as the issue I was trying to argue was that instead of making your decision based on what was being preached from the pulpit, which was not  Biblical by the way, that the people should read it for themselves and get the facts.  FACTS people, scientific evidence to  dispute the  views being spouted.  I didn’t write a rebuttal to the rebuttal, but the newspaper offered me a column in which I went on to inflame many readers about many topics.  Thank you, it’s a gift!

Fast forward to  today – Where does Mr. Behavioural Fascist get off thinking that he is my personal life police?  Really?  Once again the  fountain of garbage has spewed all over my writer’s desk. Where is the rule book that says that certain people are appointed  as judge over  others?   Where is it?  Did I miss that one somehow?  Where’s my copy?  When do I get to be judge and juror over someone else’s life? 

You all may have missed this before, but I’m not a child –  not by any stretch of the imagination. At the beginning of this year I  hit the big 50. I know, age does not define maturity. Mr. Behavioral Fascist has determined that I am the scourge of the earth by this latest  bout of tongue lashing.  I am a legal adult!  I don’t need morality police telling me that every choice I make is wrong.  I don’t need  to be babysat like a delinquent school girl.

When I make mistakes – and I do, big ones – I own up to them and take full responsibility for them.  But NOOOOOOOOOO, that isn’t good enough. I’m taken to task over every slight offense. Guess what?  I”m not perfect and never claimed to be.  I screw up on a grand scale at times because I am actually doing something.  If you’re not making mistakes then you aren’t living.

I’m not making excuses for my  bad behavior, I’m not saying that my choices are always the best but it’s not anyone else’s place to judge me and inform me that I am the  great evil. If it’s anyone’s business it would be my husband’s and children and they aren’t ready to burn me at the stake.

What was that thing that Jesus said?  Oh yes – “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”  He didn’t say “Let those who have made the same mistakes crucify you after they  have recovered.”

As far as I know we are all human here and all of us fall short of perfection.  I realize that is a hard concept for some to grasp but it’s true.  Until someone can  provide proof that aliens walk among us, or vampires are real, or some other nonhuman entity exists I shall assume that we are all in fact human.

Why is it that people feel the need to express to me  my failings?  This has happened to me on more than one occasion.  In fact,  it has happened to me a number of times.  Is there something about me that screams to  others to inform me of my short comings?  I’d really like to know so I can remove that sign.

And to Mr. Behavioural Fascist –  you’re not the boss of me! 

Write on my friends, regardless of what your critics say.