Like a cockroach

How strange last night to reenter a kitchen that had moments before been void of other beings and to see one which, although I am no judge of cockroaches’ ages, seemed to have been until recently in the prime of its life, supine and motionless on the floor.

Gratitude followed my surprise, gratitude that the beast was already dead. As much as I loathe cockroaches, I hate killing them more. I have been known to trap them and release them outside. I know it’s stupid, but that’s how terrified I am of matching strength with one of these bugs and exposing its vile guts.

I have had four cockroaches sojourn in my apartment. The first I released to the wild. The second was slain by my valiant boyfriend, in the bathtub, with a shoe. I believe that one was flushed. The third I killed gruesomely, in the sink, with a bread board. He was insinkerated. The fourth I encountered dead, as pictured above. After photographing him I swept him up and took him out to the dumpster with my trash. I must say I am pleased with the variety of these creatures’ ends.

The danger past, I reflected on my connection to the deceased, as John Donne, various Native American spiritual leaders, and many others have taught us to do. Which brings me to the following logic problem: What is the probability that Cockroach #1 was either Cockroach #2, #3, or #4, assuming a closed system of myself and only those roaches mentioned? I will leave that one to you, gentle reader, for now.

The roach and the ruler are good illustrations of a moral principle I’ve been developing lately. I’ve been thinking a lot about how bad it is to compare ourselves to others. I think this is the reason for much of our discontentment. Some good comes of wanting to be the best at certain easily quantifiable deeds which one is uniquely gifted to do. But no good comes of comparing oneself to others in features of personality or even situations of life. We are all so different that it is unhelpful to make these judgments. Comparing ourselves to others is the root of much evil.

There is plenty of biblical support for my thesis, including the tenth commandment, as well as some buddhist principles and important tenets of other religions. But I will provide some down-home folksy real-life examples, since I excel in that type of rhetoric.

Have you ever conversed with someone who complimented you in a way that made you feel like they wanted you to feel sorry for them? You say something unrelated to either of you and this person follows it with an admiring statement about you that really only makes you feel bad because it expresses your friend’s self-pity about not having whatever trait was mentioned. Ridiculously enough, meanwhile, perhaps you like the given person precisely because they are the way they are.

Or you talk to someone who says, “I wish I was more like you,” perhaps referring to the way you deal with grief. Well, in fact, you don’t want this person to be more like yourself. You’ve always been kind of fascinated with the way they approach life. We all deal with grief differently, and just because I don’t cry easily doesn’t mean I don’t hurt. I could take the bait and argue with this person that maybe it’s easier to deal with grief if you do cry easily, because for one thing everyone might feel sorry for you instead of thinking you’re a cold-hearted creep, but that would only be validating the idiotic idea that you can judge these things at all. The point is that we have no idea what other people’s lives are like. Even in the simplest things like how much pain we feel when we’re sick or when we get bruised or when our head hurts, we are completely unable to compare our experiences with others’.

A lot of people give Job’s friends a hard time. They were pretty dumb when they started talking. They shouldn’t have even tried. But who nowadays would sit in silence with a depressed friend for seven whole days and nights and refrain from giving advice? That was pretty cool, what they did. Job is a pretty good example, because he really did have it worse. I say that if people want to think their lives are so much worse than yours is, you might as well just let them.

I want to tell everyone to be happy with who they are (and no, that’s not the same thing as simply being happy, which is not something I feel qualified to tell people to be). It will actually make everyone else happier at the same time. The apostle Paul understands this when he talks about protecting our special differences and not all trying to be someone else. When I look at that cockroach, I do not envy it or wish I was more like it. I can appreciate the cockroach for what it is and then, recognizing that death belongs to everyone, turn my attention to my own responsibilities.