Sy Safransky (nice interview at that link), indefatigable editor of The Sun for decades, publishes his "Notebook" in each issue, a splatter of impressions, observations, and some very good writing. One paragraph in the Feb '10 (click there to read the whole thing) issue spoke loudly to my inner self-esteemer:
I overslept this morning: A bad way to start the day. Does that make me a bad man? It's tempting to think so: yet another opportunity for the vast right-wing conspiracy within me to score another point at my expense. What did I say to Norma [his wife] recently? I need to start the Sy Safransky Anti-Defamation League to counteract the unp[rincipled and vicious attacks make against me by my worst enemy, which would, of course, be me." Yes, I can joke about it. But the self-lacerating shame isn't funny. The put-downs. The bullying. The gallows humor that, no matter how clever, always ends with a noose around my neck. Where is the justice, Your Honor? So I woke up at six instead of five. Instead of blaming myself for oversleeping, maybe I should blame Norma for running naked through one of my dreams, indifferent to whether anyone might see her. If she'd exercised some discretion, I wouldn't have had to run after her and might have heard the clock radio from a thousand miles away, the trumpet call from that other dream realm I'm in the habit of calling "waking reality," though it might more accurately be called "trying-to-wake-up reality"--and I don't just mean getting out of bed. I mean waking up! Get up, sleepyhead! You're not a bad sleepyhead or a good sleepyhead. Forget all that. Wake up!
