Effing Flaws

Lately, I've noticed myself becoming crasser. My entire life, I avoided using stronger epithets than crap or, when I was knee-deep in mission slang, I would throw around shiz because it was scriptural and that was a thing we did. But I never said "real" swear words through my first thirty-two years of solar orbit. As of late, however, I've noticed my frustrations boiling over in the form of frothy word vomit that's muttered under my breath. I don't even swear loudly enough for it to be cathartic, which certainly raises the question of whether or not it's worth doing.

But the point of today's writing isn't to chat about the fundamental absurdity of swearing--despite the fact it has an august and robust history--and instead thinking about why it bothers me that I'm swearing more. Or, rather, to poke at the concept of why I've started swearing in the first place.

It comes from, I believe, a couple of things. One is certainly a greater ubiquity. I don't seek out vulgarities, but a lot of the content I read and listen to has it in there. Hypocritically, I find it tiresome to hear swearing bandied about endlessly. The frequency of profanity, paradoxically, decreases its potency. At least, that's the theory--that you build up a tolerance for it. The desensitization of the mind to profanity is real, which means that its continued use becomes less and less worthwhile, yet at the same time, it's seen more and more.

I'm certainly not going to be so shallow, however, as to claim that my own change in vocabulary grows out of the media I consume. The blame game can go on and on (yes, that was a pun/allusion if you followed the link), so eventually it comes down to the choices that I make. And one of the things that I have always tried to do--to my righteousness or ruin, I cannot say--is be exact. I can be an entrenched stickler for something (don't get me started on why I think grammar is important) when I set my mind to it, and "clean" language was one of those things that I resolved a long time ago to keep.

Lately, however, the overwhelming pressure of my life choices has cracked my resolve. Like ice underfoot, I can feel spiderwebs of slippage fingering outward. I struggle to keep patient with my children, to maintain a cool head when driving in my car, of remaining polite and thoughtful when students say dumb things (and, boy, do they say dumb things). I find my physical exhaustion wanes as my self-diagnosed depression waxes--always an inverse corollary--and I send so many of my mental resources to maintaining balance that when something slips through the cracks (note to self: You still haven't set up the piano mover appointment like you were supposed to...three weeks ago) it dominoes in unexpected ways.

So when I finally get frustrated (freakin' computer--guaranteed to set me off) at something small and inconsequential, out comes the swears.* Some people claim that swearing helps cut down on pain, but I haven't found much catharsis. It's just a problem that I have--a flaw I'm working to fix.

F*ckin' flaws.


---
* For some reason, I feel like I have to contextualize this and mention that it's the "small swears" that usually come out. I don't use the "big swears"; the cracks aren't deep enough...yet