Pedestals are for Dead Guys

From Wikipedia:
ped·es·tal
ˈpedəstl/
noun: pedestal; plural noun: pedestals
    1.
    the base or support on which a statue, obelisk, or column is mounted.
    synonyms:    plinth, base, support, mounting, stand, foundation, pillar, column, pier; socle
    "a bust on a pedestal"
    2.
    a position in which someone is greatly or uncritically admired.
    "It's as if I'm on a pedestal and he worships me – I hate that"
    synonyms:    idealize, lionize, look up to, respect, hold in high regard, think highly of, admire, esteem, revere, worship
    "if you put me on a pedestal, I'll eventually disappoint you”

You are welcome (for me providing you, the reader, with a definition)!  I just wanted to be clear on this.
Pedestals, and the statues (or other monuments on them) can be precarious places to stand.  Here’s why:  They are most often elevated above the ground and sometimes they are quite high.   They are often the home to pigeons and their, umm, “messiness”.  The item or statue on a pedestal can often be toppled - sometimes with minimal effort.  And lastly, whatever is on that pedestal is “out there” for all to see; to be criticized, judged, evaluated, looked up to, rained on, and pooped on by birds. Usually the statue on the pedestal is a person who is already dead, so you never get to actually see your pigeon-poop-covered, marble (or granite), self.  In other words, you often have to die to earn a place on this kind of pedestal.

 
If you are a live tyrant and have erected a statue of yourself and placed it on a pedestal, you might be in for disappointment.  Many rulers have had their monuments placed above the throng on a pedestal, only to have it defaced and brought down in a riot of rubble and uproar, in protest of that ruler.  Now that’s a sad ending to a lovely career of oppression.

Okay, enough of physical pedestals.  I’d like to address definition #2 - the figurative pedestals.   This is when you are either:  #1 so full of self importance and pride that you place yourself above others,OR, #2 when someone else thinks you are the “bomb-diggity” and they place you on their own imagined pedestal, often so high up in the air that your features are blessedly blurred.  Not such a bad thing in many cases, unless you are nervous of heights, like I am.  Actually, it’s not the height that is scary, but the fall from that lofty elevation.

If you are inclined to place yourself on one of these pedestals, all I can say is, “think again”.  Human nature and human frailty will not allow you to stay up there for long.  
The saying goes, “No one thinks you are as important as you think you are.” 
I may have just made that up.  Feel free to share it around.  

I have had the ongoing opportunity to see myself in the glaring light of day; warts and all.  I know I am full of imperfections and I find new ones every day.  I could fill 583 pages, single spaced, font size 2, of all my faults.  No self-imposed pedestal for me, thank you.  At the same time, I keep finding that I subconsciously keep trying to build myself one.  That’s why it’s good to keep a few kids around, to remind you of your mortality and imperfect-ness. The pedestal that others build and try to put you on are often the worst kind, for me anyways, because I hate disappointing people.
 
 
I will tell you a true story.  Many years ago, a young mother in my neighborhood befriended me.  We mostly saw each other at church functions, so I was always on my “Sunday best behavior” with not many chances to talk frankly.  Occasionally I’d see her on the streets of our neighborhood while out walking and we’d chat briefly.  

After a year or so of this, she made a comment that she wanted to be like me someday.  (inward groan)  I told her that she really didn’t want that.  She replied, “Oh, but I do!!  I think you are just perfect!”.  I tried to convince her of my imperfections, just short of cussing like a sailor to demonstrate, but to no avail.  She had me on a pedestal.  (She even used that word!)  I remember walking home in a funk, thinking, “Oh boy, here we go.  I am guaranteed to disappoint her.”
Within a year of that little chat on the corner, I fell.  I don’t even know how I fell.  I was probably just being me, the regular old imperfect me.  She quit talking to me, like, suddenly.  She would look away when I approached. (I may be exaggerating this point a tiny bit)  She would no longer come sit by me in church.  Years later, I still don’t know what caused my fall in her eyes, but she eventually became politely friendly again.  Not real friendly, but just casually so.  You know, where you never really talk about anything super important.  It made me just a little sad, but I knew it was on her, not on me.  I can’t be who I’m not.

My unasked for advice is this; let’s leave the pedestals for the dead guys, for the monuments to the great ones (who have passed on to the next life), and those historical figures that inspire and awe.  In the end, none of us can be who we aren’t, not for long anyways.  And being yourself, down on the ground and not up in the clouds is a lot more comfortable than providing a nesting place for poopy pigeons.   And if anyone DOES build a monument to you and places it on a pedestal, you won’t be around to see it.  And that’s a good thing.