I dream of being a mediocre man,
Utterly average, an unexceptional specimen.
No greatness to aspire to, no failure to fear,
Just blissful, unburdened, blessed mediocrity.
I’d scale no mountains, set no world on fire,
But neither would I feel the weight of expectation.
I could simply exist, unencumbered by ambition,
Free to revel in the glory of my own ordinariness.
No pressure to prove, to excel, to transcend,
No endless striving for an ever-receding perfection.
I’d bask in the warm glow of “good enough,”
Confident that the world will make space for me.
I’d stroll through life with an easy nonchalance,
My missteps forgiven, my lapses overlooked.
They’d chuckle indulgently at my foibles and flaws,
As I fail my way forward, upwards, unscathed.
Oh, to be celebrated for my most basic achievements!
To be praised for the bare minimum, graded on a curve.
I’d navigate the world with the assurance of the unremarkable,
Knowing that even my mediocrity is enough.
But I am shackled by the tyranny of exceptionalism,
Crushed under the weight of my own potential.
I must be a paragon, a prodigy, a phenomenon,
Just to earn a fraction of the grace bestowed upon the mediocre man.
My every flaw is magnified, my every misstep condemned,
I walk a tightrope of perfection, forever fearing the fall.
For the crime of being born female,
I am sentenced To a lifetime of striving, proving, and overcoming.
So I’ll don the armor of exceptionalism once more,
And wade into the fray of a world that demands my best.
But in my secret heart, I’ll nurture that dream
Of the life I could’ve had, as a mediocre man.
The Grass is Always Greener on the Mediocre Side
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