Editing

I am a good editor. I pride myself in my ability to spot a typo a mile away, and I get a strange satisfaction at pointing out a mixed modifier, spelling error, improper comma or verb tense confusion. My editing skills apply, however, only for others' work. I am, for all practical purposes, unable to spot my own errors in syntax. It's my writing, and I know exactly what I was thinking when I added that extra comma, albeit possibly misplaced. I suck at self-editing.

In my life, however, I am keenly aware of each mistake and wrongdoing that I have committed, and hold myself culpable for my actions; (a lesson that my parents instilled in me from little on,) in an effort to notice my fallibility, my humanity, and ultimately, to know myself as best as possible. Which, as you may guess, I do.

One area of said self-understanding that I fail to understand, however, (how's that for a paradox?) is that which applies to the opposite sex. I am 22 years old and have never had a boyfriend. There have been a few opportunities which have come my way, but never with anyone for whom I have felt it was worth jumping my proverbial ship of independence.

In the meantime, though, I have managed to effectively attract every derelict, old man, social anomaly and/or weirdo in some manner or another. While the capers and escapades of a day in my life make for one hell of a story, the self-deprecating bit is getting tired. The hilarity of these random antics is losing its edge.

Take yesterday, for example. Felipe, the guy at Trader Joe's, who is always friendly and helps me find a nice Cabernet that he thinks I may find palatable, or points me in the direction of my favorite snack crackers when I appear lost, asked me out. He made sure to inform me prior to doing so, that he has a criminal record, but is getting back on track, and hopes to cultivate a career as a firefighter/hairdresser in the near future. Mind you, this instance was used only for chronological purposes, and is one of many anecdotes I have in my repertoire pertaining to such. (I'm not in the mood to reference them, but trust me, there are a great many.)

Far be it from me to judge Felipe's life. That is not my intention here. In fact, I think it's great that he's turning his life around to combat arson whilst snipping the locks of his fellow firemen. Admirable, even. What I fail to grasp, however, is how, out of the throngs of Trader Joe's goers, I am the one to whom his attention is drawn.

So I guess my question is this: What is my role in all of this nonsense? If I am the self-aware individual that I claim to be, where is the consolation? Should I continue to accept these frequent occurrences, laugh them off, and use them as blog material? Or, like a misplaced comma, or subject verb disagreement, should I simply edit them out of my life?