Looking strangers in the eye, men in the eye. Connecting at all.
I avoid it. I’ve been contemplating that.
I avoid it not in a shy way, not in a snotty way, just in a it’s easier that way way.
I’m over it.
Truth is, I love men, I get along with them better than women. My husband says I’m like Elaine. (You’re welcome hun for including a Seinfeld reference in my writing, finally) . Now that’s a little harsh, I don’t hate women. But let’s just say I don’t belong to any book clubs, there are no spa dates, and I’ve never been a bridesmaid. I’m not relaxed in a circle of women, but I could sit for hours and listen to testosterone laced banter. Yet, I don’t. Why?
The story that has played in my head for years is: if you are looking, you are interested, if just by looking you are interested then you must just be interested in how I look, that must mean there is only a sexual undertone, if that’s the case, then what’s the point? Friendship is muddled immediately, maybe even conversation is.
Now you might be thinking, wow, don’t we think very highly of ourselves? How wonderful for you to just assume everyone wants to get freaky with you? Ugh, bitch.
Fair.
On the other hand, consider that, for most of my years on this earth, I lived in a space that found it impossible to believe there could be another reason that someone of the opposite sex wanted to connect. My worth, in my mind, was directly related to appearance. And looks are elusive, subjective, fleeting. And if that is what your worth is, elusive, subjective, fleeting, then what must that be like? There was a repeated perception that when I spoke, that words, so carefully thought and considered inside, escaped from my lips only to evaporate into a world that didn’t hear, it just saw.
So, I shut up.
In my depths I’m one who would like to sit on the beach for hours with most people and talk about proverbial hopes and fears. But I kept my eyes down.
I towed the line mostly. I dressed appropriately. Never thrived in attention. Didn’t dare.
I was not meek nor did I lack confidence. I knew my intellect. I thought myself quite witty. Most of the time the woman in the mirror was a damn fine bitch I’d like to hang with. But I kept her under wraps, only a select few got to know her, I never let her get too big for her britches.
What a waste.
This changed the day I started writing.
People listened. They couldn’t see, but they still heard. The more I shared what was beneath, the more interested they became. It was like the little beams of glittering light that was ultimately me started to break through. Such fire. So alive. Holes began to appear in the story.
So I’m going to keep my eyes up now. I’m going to get too big for my britches. And I’m going to let you all see it. If you meet my gaze, I beg of you, don’t let your story win, show me your glitter too.
