Let’s Take a Trip: A Guilt Trip

Sometimes we need to take stock of what we feel guilty about. Here's one woman's taking stock (and it's actually hilarious.)

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Let's Take a Trip: A Guilt Trip

I often feel guilty. It’s strange, seeing that I was not bought up in a pre-war Catholic household, that I have such a predisposition towards guilt.

I refuse to feel remorseful about stuff normally seen as ‘bad,’ as these can usually be attributed to human nature/weakness. Most of us have a vague sense of first-world guilt. I just feel guilty about really specific, pointless things. Cue list…

  • Not buying that special ‘ecological’ washing up liquid even though deep down you know it’s just a marketing ploy and any washing up liquid would have to be biodegradable in order to be sold in the UK.
  • Not being one of those feminists who doesn’t care what they look like without make up on and instead is one of those women that bows to societal pressure and has to have at least one coat of mascara on before going out in public. Blame blond eyelashes. Soz Germaine.
  • The undeniable pleasure that you get from judging other people on their life choices, be it regarding the selection of outfit, life partner, or lame Facebook update. It is a known fact that b****ing about other people makes you feel better about yourself, especially if you can find someone that agrees with you, and it’s cheaper than drugs. See also: providing scathing commentary about contestants on Come Dine With Me.
  • Poor ratio of books read to TV watched.
  • Still dining off the fact you were once on the telly even though it was over ten years ago and most people have never heard of the programme. It was terrestrial prime time, dammit!
  • Being too reliant on modern luxuries when really you’d love to be all off-grid and be the one people come to for handmade bows and arrows and squirrel meat when society eventually collapses. This is also known as the Katniss Effect.
  • Lack of fluency in any other language. Especially when you suffered through A-level French, which involved the torturous reading of crap French novels, and your mum is German.
  • Stepping on snails (accidentally; I’m not a monster)

I can’t see any of these changing any time soon, but maybe by airing my dirty laundry in public I can come to terms with what a terrible person I really am and move on.

Now what’s French for ‘do you speak English?’