March 11, 2010
That’s what it’s like. Except that this whackamole game is rrrrrreeeeaaaalllllyyyyyyy slow. Also, the whacking doesn’t push the mole back down right away. It requires repeated whacking, for a much longer time than is convenient.
In short, it’s the LEAST FUN WHACKAMOLE EVER.
It’s that project that you flubbed three years ago – and every once in a while, it flashes into your memory with perfect clarity, nibbling away at your professional confidence and wreaking subtle havoc with second-guesses and paralyzing self-doubt.
It’s that time when you should have been forthright, but said that you’d call, and then you didn’t. After the third date. And now you run into the guy, or someone who knows him, and you get that sickening, hot flush of shame that makes you turn noticeably red for entire minutes to follow.
It’s that guy you cannot believe you dated. The one that you can’t believe you introduced to your friends, the one who is still on the fringes of some aspect of your social life. And everyone KNOWS you dated this person. And whenever you’re reminded of that, you suspect they think less of you for it.
It’s a mole named Voldemort. And you do your best not to name it. You’ve taken it out and looked at it and tried to deal with it, and then you tried to shove it into the deepest recesses of your psyche when dealing with it didn’t make it disappear. But in mole-like fashion, it quietly tunnels its way up to the surface, and peeks its head out, squeaking and sniffing, eating your garden along with your confidence, and no matter how many times you employ the mallet, the little rodent goes away only when it’s good and ready. And you know that normal people could let this go. Normal people would not be playing imaginary whackamole against themselves. Normal people would just put the memory away, where it belonged, and it would stay there.
And you wonder if the only way to get rid of it for good, is to smash the game or leave the arcade altogether.