KYPHOSIS noun. (swelling, projection) as in hump.
Hello fronds. Fronds is the way I’ve pronounced friends and similar words since my Mother had the misfortune of saying “Bwonz” instead of “Beans” about 2 months back. That’s my sense of humour, minor mispronunciations. Deal with it, I’ve had to.
Anywhosiers, how are ye? I’m listening to a movie playlist on spotify and as I typed the question mark, spotify answered with “Ghostbusters!” so I’ll take that as an answer and I’m glad to hear ye’re well. What’s this post going to be about? I haven’t decided yet. I did this with the majority of my college essays and bar the “staying awake all night to finish them on time thing”, it usually worked out well. What’s on my mind? Let’s see…
I’m still unemployed. I naively thought the Irish job market was better stocked than it actually is. Mother Dearest would be basking in being right if it wasn’t for the annoyance of having her grown adult child at home all day long, all the damn time. My standards are dropping by the day. I’m experienced and skilled. I have a college education. I’m actively looking for a job that I can progress within, starting at the bottom is to be expected. But now? Now I’m like “feck it, I’m going back to a shop, right?” and I really don’t want to. I need more experience in a job I can travel with. I don’t want to spend money on a visa, flights and accommodation just to leave my family and end up working as a cashier in Canada or the like. Now, this isn’t a dig at shop workers, it’s just that I’ve been working in one since I was 14 years old. After getting a job that wasn’t a shop assistant role, I’ve realised how valuable varied work experience is. I have the potential for so much more. I just don’t know where to start.
Now this has me thinking, will I ever reach my full potential? Bit of a jump now but every little problem links to a bigger one for me, I’m like a reverse Russian doll. This, honestly, stems back to my very early childhood. Every single school report card I’ve ever gotten. Every. Single. One. From the age of four to 18 has had the same message, albeit written in different languages and ways (Gaelscoil ftw). The message, I wear as a badge of pride, is “Rachel has a lot of ability, but lacks concentration”. That’s the wording in it’s purest, most simple form. Add in the odd “she’s very chatty” and “better attendance is a must” and you’ve got a handsome picture of who I am. The way I interpret this, naturally being the drama loving gal I am, is “Rachel is destined for great things but she’s a bit shit at figuring out how to get there”. I have the so-called ‘ability’ for the future career I want; writing, but my lazy, slightly thick arse doesn’t actually do any writing. I’m so out of practice, I have to keep stopping and rereading what I type. My syntax and story structure is that of a 3-year-old child off it’s tits on on Coca-Cola at it’s cousins First Holy Communion. (Side note: don’t use tits and a 3-year-old in the same sentence again).
Where was I? Oh yeah, right so, like I have the basics of what I need to be a writer, I think. I’m just counting having a blog and things to moan about but I’m sure in time I’ll figure out how to write a book, or at least try. All I have to do now, is hone my craft. Write. That’s it, write. Not that hard, is it? Maybe not, but I think I have a chip in my shoulder about falling short of my true potential. It’s not even a mental thing though. It’s physical. Let me jet off on another tangent and we can all see if I can tie it in together.
Quick bit of background info, I go to an osteopath cause I’m awkward and some of the joints in my back like to get stuck together, to paraphrase the professional. My posture has never been ‘ideal’ and as a result, (or so I thought) I have a bit of a hump, for want of a better word. Now my Dad has only noticed this recently, and his educated (not) medical opinion is “you’d want to get a scan on that”. The effect this had on hypochondriac me is a whole other blog post. So my neck is getting stiff and I book an appointment with my Osteo guy, mainly because it’s almost Christmas and I know he’s going home to New Zealand and if my joints decide to get together for the holidays, I’m fucked. Whilst the Osteo is knuckle deep in my shoulder joints I decide ‘who better to ask about back problems?’ Right? I start with “Y’know my hunchback?”, innocently expecting a “No?” but getting the opposite. I follow with, “Anything I can do about that?” I get a no, maybe if I had surgery and wore a brace as a preteen but nothing now. It’s genetic says he, apparently some ancestor was a crooked cratur and it skipped all the tribe except me. Grand. Thanks genetics! I finish with a joke I regularly tell “Yeah, I’d be six foot without this hump!” and I’m surprised to hear him respond with “yeah, there’s about four inches in there”. Four, fucking, inches? You’re joking. I was born to be six foot two and because of the genetic lottery I’m stuck being five ten.
Five foot ten is still quite tall I hear them say. That’s irrelevant. I’m meant to be 6’2” and now I never will be. Has everything in life been leading to this point? Everything I could have achieved but didn’t, all because I was not destined to ever reach my full potential. Has every prospect been destined to fail? Do I finally have a scapegoat for being a slothful romantic? All the things that were on my route but got off at the stop before mine, inevitable? I don’t know about you, but I think calling it a chip on my shoulder is a bit light, it’s a hunchback and I’m going to blame it for as long as it takes me to accomplish my dreams… and then I’m going to pretend it was what inspired me all along.
Thanks for enduring the rambles, don’t worry about me, those four inches only keep me up at night most of the time. I joke, but one of these days I will get my shit together and you’ll all be there to see it.