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We’re not who we think we are
On finally waking up to the finitude of life
An interesting thing happened at a milonga (an Argentine tango social dance event) recently. I was dancing with one of my favorite leaders when I missed one of his cues. I breathed, “Sorry,” in his ear. When the song ended, I said, “I still can’t…” He cut me off. “Don’t be self-deprecating. You’ve been doing this long enough.” He meant dancing. I was shocked and embarrassed, but I knew what he said was true. I also knew he was shining a light on a blind spot for me. He was right. I was reflexively bashing myself, reflexively apologizing when there was no need, and reflexively doing something a little more subtle and ugly. I was leaning into some kind of poor, little, helpless me persona that was no longer serving me, and I’m certain never had.
How long had I been doing this, resorting to this trope of the hapless, young ingénue? For my entire life, I’d wager. And I’m nowhere near ingénue territory any longer. In fact, I’m 54 years old — and that’s no spring chicken, as my dad would say. The truth is, that persona had served me well over the years, or I thought it had. Looking at it now, I’m pretty sure it hurt me. Sure, it came in useful in various situations. Men seemed to respond well to it. But not always. A boyfriend named Marty who majored in rhetoric at UC Berkeley once accused me of…
