Why do we spend so much of our lives embarrassed? This thought often comes to me, especially when I am apologizing for a particular like or dislike that has slipped out in the course of conversation. I catch a glimpse of a raised eyebrow, a dip of the corner of the mouth, a flaring of the nostrils in my interlocutor, and I mentally (or even physically) flush, and I rush to explain, to belittle, or to qualify what I've just said. Yes, even though I was writing my dissertation on "The Failure of Rebellion in Romantic Drama–England, France, and Germany" when I finally fled graduate school, never to return, I really, really loved reading the Harry Potter books. And even though I know the Arab Spring is a very important social and historical phenomenon, I just don't care.
Even as I type these statements, I cringe in self-denigration. No doubt you, Unknown Reader, are appalled by either my evident bad taste or my cynical apathy.
I seem at times to swim in seas of embarrassment. It is the bane of my existence. I blush, I stammer, I fall silent, I bite my words back. Why can't I revel in being myself? Where is my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world?
I am filled with admiration for people who don't care how they look or sound to others, who present themselves simply and straightforwardly, without apology. I think this was why I was first attracted to my ex-husband: his utter lack of self-consciousness whether he was serenading me in the middle of a restaurant, grabbing me around the waist and waltzing with me in a bookstore that just happened to be playing a waltz as background music, or wearing a kilt on the subway. While my face flamed and my eyes stayed downcast, he would blithely go about his singing or dancing or kilt-wearing and offer friendly smiles to those who mocked him. If only I had that kind of confidence and self-possession! I thought. Then....
Then what? I don't know. Life would be easier? Surely not. It wasn't for my ex-husband. But wouldn't it be heaven, though, to be be liberated from all that humiliation? I think it must be at least a tiny bit wonderful.
I watch my son and daughter, who are extremely self-conscious and easily embarrassed, and I wonder if my own constant embarrassment has had an effect on them. I never mock them or belittle their likes and dislikes (okay, maybe I did a little when my daughter was going through a very brief Justin Bieber phase), but somehow all that embarrassment oozes down to them anyway. Am I inadvertently teaching them shame by example? Who am I kidding? Peer pressure alone can crush a child more completely than anything a mere parent can dish out.
Which brings me to the next question: Why do we (not my family, but society as a whole) feel compelled to mock others? I think in most cases it's because it makes us feel superior, to mark us as beings of good taste, high intellect, or, at least, decent fashion sense. This last brings back memories of humiliation.
For a teenager in the 70's growing up in the Midwest, it was considered the height of poor fashion to wear jeans that showed even a bit of ankle. In fact, jeans were supposed to cover most of the top of one's shoe, and to drag behind so much that eventually the friction of one's heels would wear off a crescent of fabric in the back. My mother, being a practical woman, always bought me jeans that were well off the ground, so I walked the halls of my junior high school to near-constant ridicule from both girls and boys (this was pre-Michael Jackson, remember). As waves of scarlet passed fitfully across my face with every comment, I would rage inwardly, wondering why they cared so much about a couple inches of denim. In the entire scheme of the universe, or even of planet Earth, why did it matter?
Then there was Dale Devore. He was skinny, red-headed, freckled, and always had at least two inches of white sock showing above his sneakers. But he was cheerful and funny and never seemed to mind anything. One day, I was walking along behind him as the halls filled with students changing classes, and a big jock-type fellow remarked loudly to him, "I see you're waiting for the Flood" (this was a common remark, and pants like ours were dubbed "highwaters"). His friends guffawed. Without missing a beat, Dale retorted, "Yep, and I'm gonna be ready for it, and you're all gonna get your pants wet!" The burly guy muttered something along the lines of "Loser!" or "You're such an asshole!" but all the steam had gone out of him; it was no longer fun teasing the weird kid. I think I fell in love with Dale at that moment.
(Later on, in high school, Dale was a DJ for our high school radio, which broadcast once a week for fifteen minutes. He got suspended once for locking the door to the broadcast station and blasting rock-and-roll for five minutes during first period. I wonder if he ever fulfilled his dream of becoming a real DJ. Where are you now, Dale?)
So one of my goals for the Second Half is to give up embarrassment, sort of like giving up smoking. It will be hard to do at first, and I'm sure I'll have many relapses, but I'll work on it a little every day. I want to revel in my geekiness, not to apologize for my tastes, such as liking songs by both Lady Gaga and John Denver, and to recognize that people who might ridicule me have a problem with their own self-esteem. Oh God, that sounds so pompous! I'm not really like that....
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