Cynicism comes in many flavors, and I have tasted them all.

For most, our first taste comes during adolescence: No one really means what they say. Society is a shell game. Alas, only I know this hard truth, but I am strong enough to bear it. If you get it too, well, you still don’t get it as much as me. And now it’s time to listen to some emo.

Then there’s the original recipe, the Greek Cynics, the “dog philosophers” of the ancient world. These are the guys who, inspired by Socrates, would make their home in a trash can in the mall food court, neglect all forms of personal hygiene (and not just product), and verbally assault passersby about the horrible fakeness of their lives. They believed good ways to do this were to piss on people who argued with you, take dumps in the middle of movie theaters, and flip off nice folks who had never hurt anyone.

Naturally, these performance artists were all the rage.

The bad thing about old school Cynicism is that it doesn’t taste good with a side order of friends and a mortgage. Enter Stoicism, a Diet Cynicism that has all the great taste of the regular but is far less filling. You could be an independently wealthy Stoic. You could even be the Emperor of Rome. You just had to think about how awful everything is.

So it went on down to the existentialists, who modeled their lives on the original Cynics by braving the hardships of tenured professorships and diets of nothing but coffee and cigarettes. So very brave. Some of them heroically embraced their angst and ennui by laying down arms against the Nazis so they could write naughty things about Hitler in underground newspapers.

But all of that is college cynicism, a taster plate of fine European philosophers and their struggles to live authentically in the midst of Empire, while keeping their season passes to the aquarium.

It isn’t long before real life intervenes. We get Joe jobs to pay the rent, yet we long for something authentic, something more real than real life.

Sometime between now and then we figured out that it can’t be done. We can call it “fake authenticity“: anyone who tries to not be a poser is a poser already. No amount of shopping trips to Urban Outfitters and the thrift store will make us real. There is no amount of miles we can put on our Volvos and Priuses that will make us real. There is no magic dive bar or farmer’s market that will make us real. We try to do our part. We try to reach back to some pure core that was once there, or reach out in hopes of discovering it for the first time. But in the end, it all ends up as shopping for t-shirts.

What do you do in a closed off world like that? Set up camp in a trash can in the mall food court and start flipping soccer moms the bird? Leave a trail fecal-editorial commentary across the supercinemas of America? Quit your job and move into a shelter with the other folks who yell at passing strangers? No, that’s too hard to explain to grandma at Thanksgiving. And there’d be no way to charge the iPod.

We try cynicism and find it too demanding. We try to live without cynicism and find true authenticity always out of reach—and find partial authenticity grating.

We try and fail. We become reluctant cynics.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been a reluctant cynic, but it’s been a while. I’d like to do more, but it’s not like my small little piece will make a difference. I can see how many other people are doing their small little pieces. They’re losing. What’s worse is they’ve been losing for a while. The worst of them make fools of themselves, and their causes, while they’re at it. No thank you.

Maybe someday I’ll be too tired to walk to the back of the bus, and you will all congratulate me for my courage and name elementary schools after me. But I’m not going to make myself tired hoping that, one of these days, one of these bus rides will be the one when I make the system tumble down. I’ve seen those people. They’re worn out. They wear everyone else out too, even though no one cares where someone sits on the bus anymore.

Reluctant cynicism isn’t something we seek out; it seeks us out. When it finds us, we don’t take to the streets or see the light. We shrug our shoulders. We say, “Oh… huh…” and sigh. And then we let the dog out one last time before we lock up the house for the night.

I didn’t want to be a reluctant cynic, and I don’t want to be one now. It isn’t working. I have watched myself giving up my ideals. Anticipating more disappointments, I have even learned to fear my ideals.

Maybe I should give up on my cynicism. But I’m not sure how. I suspect it involves something of a leap of faith. Of course, the problem with leaps of faith is that you never know what’s on the other side, or even that you’ll get there. I’m afraid what I’ll find is despair.

Reluctant cynicism is a stop gap solution, a last ditch effort to avoid despair. Or at least a whistling in the dark. If we confront the shadow, maybe we’ll lose. If we don’t confront the shadow, maybe there isn’t a shadow. Maybe we can walk on by.

I’m tempted. The prospect of giving up on cynicism, however daunting, is promising. I’ve always wanted to embrace my values head on. I believe in them, after all, and they’ve steered me right in the past. But, still, the fear lingers. Or worse.

I guess I’ll just have to take that leap. And see what’s on the other side.