Fuck.
There. I’ve said it—or rather written it—a shocking word (in my real estate business circle) that most people who know me as the consummate professional would never (and I do mean never) think I’d ever utter, never mind open with in my first public blog post. (Note: The title of my first blog was going to be “Alberta Beef Makes Me Horny,” but you’ll just have to wait for that one.)
So here I am, the real me. Currently, the real me is scared as fuck. (Now I’m just writing that word to show off. I’ll refrain from further use unless authentically warranted, rather than just to shock, only because overuse of the word nullifies its effectiveness and distracts from content. Let’s be clear on that.)
The other night I went to a music event with some (new) friends and, after a few drinks (them, not me—see, I can be a prude), we got to philosophizing (rambling) about how we (people) consciously and unconsciously filter ourselves in consideration of others.
Swaying near the men’s bathroom and close-talking above the noise we’re oblivious of by now, a couple of staggering and swaggering men pass us (we’re two attractive redheads) on their way to the loo.
Redhead Barbie (not me, though I wish): “I used to always worry about what everyone was thinking of me. It drove me insane!”
I reply, “People have their own reality, their own perception. No matter how much you might try ‘explaining’ yourself to some people, they’re not going to get it. They’ve got their own movies going on in their minds.”
She gets it. “Yes! It so used to bug me that they were misinterpreting me, I wanted to try to convince them, show them.”
I love this stuff. “You can’t. If it doesn’t fit into their box, if they’re not ready, willing, and able, it’s a waste of time. You just get frustrated. People who know you, really know you, love you and appreciate who you truly are.”
We take a pee break. The women’s bathroom has a line twenty lovelies long so we use the men’s. (This only endears us, I assure you.)
Stall-blind, I shout, “I used to care a lot. So much so that I wasn’t myself most of the time. My own fault, of course, I set it up that way.”
She quips, “You’re a great realtor. I’ve only heard good things about you.”
“Ex-realtor.”
I exit the stall and wash my hands next to a bearded stoner with slits for eyes. I aim my voice over my shoulder and add, “But that’s the thing, that’s not me! That’s the perception of me I created for that role.” To Slits, “Maybe I should go into acting.”
Redhead Barbie is now washing her hands. “But you were very good.”
“Okay, well, in that case, that was me, too. But, here’s the thing: that’s only a small part of me. The filtered part. Now, I just want to be the real me all the time. Wait, where were we going with this?”
“Authenticity?”
“Right! Oh yeah, here’s the thing: I’d rather have people not like me, not like the real, authentic, unfiltered, unedited me, than like a filtered version of me. Yes. That’s it.”
Slits says, “I like you.”
We exit the men’s washroom, Barbie’s man hands her something out of the man-pack he carries for her that contains make-up, gum, sweater/s, et al. (Now there’s a man who doesn’t care what people think.)
I continue, “I had coffee with a man the other day and he didn’t contact me again—”
“No way!” she gasps.
“Way. But here’s the thing. Yes, it’s the first time that’s happened, well, since I was like nineteen, but it was sooo great because I was totally myself. I mean, I wasn’t trying to get him to like me like I normally do, quite successfully, I might add. And I guess he didn’t.” I laugh. “So that’s the silver-lining. I was me. Living proof!”
She laughs and offers, “Gum?”
“Nah, I quit.”
After the conversation, she brushes up to her Man-Pack Man on the dance floor and I brush up on my flirting for old time sake, even though flirting is def definitely one of my real personality go-to’s. But that’s another story. (See “The Art of Flirting.”)
*
Warning: My blog posts contain unedited, unfiltered, politically incorrect, sarcastic, swear-containing, sometimes offensive, off-side, always real-me content that may turn you off. Read at own risk.
What have I (re)learned?
I can’t please all people all the time so I might as well please myself. Not everyone will like me and that’s a good thing. It means I’m being real. Also, even people we don’t like make the world interesting. Finally, if there’s a Man-Pack-carting man in the world for Redhead Barbie, there’s a man with enough confidence to be with this all-out-there in public me. Yay!
Homework:
Blog away, baby! Topics please.
