Sometimes we think we know people when really we just know the parts of themselves which they choose to show us.
But you know what feels good? Truly knowing people. You know what feels even better? When people truly know us.
I have the mentality of someone who lived through the Great Depression. When I moved into this house I immediately began unpacking boxes and tossing stuff out that I didn’t need. I was about to add a little pink moleskin notebook to the junk pile when I pulled back the cover and discovered six crisply folded $100 bills tucked inside. Yes, I hid my own money from myself. Under mattresses, in random envelopes, slipped inside old purses—I stash it away in case the banks foreclose. Or the Nazis come. Or another Great Depression strikes. Better to be safe than sorry, I say.
My entrepreneurial drive was present at an early age. When I was 12 years old I setup an art gallery in my garage and charged my neighbors a fee to attend the showing. They were even able to purchase original artwork. While all the other kids were selling lemonade, I was getting my start as a creative entrepreneur. Some of the biggest businesses started in garages, you know.
I have a nervous bladder. I think it’s genetic. And I do my kegels, ladies; so don’t tell me those will help because they don’t. On the first day of a new job, just before competing on a stage, on my way to an interview, prior to a first date… accidents happen. I'm sure it'll improve with age.
I have a catastrophic imagination. If Donald is locked in his crate for longer than three hours I start to envision him clawing his way out and me arriving home to a terrifyingly bloody mess. By the third hour of being away from home I begin to panic so I rush home to find him… sitting perfectly content in his warm bed. Car crashes I assume involve my closest friends, planes I predict will crash, and lifelong dreams of success I intricately envision imploding into nothingness. Everything’s a catastrophe.
I struggle to come up with topics to blog about. If it’s a topic that won’t inspire you, then I’m not inspired to write about it. I blog for two reasons—to inspire and to clear my head. If I can inspire you to be more real with yourself by being real with myself, then I’ve done what I set out to do. Several months ago my goal was to post something new on my blog every Monday-Friday. I was told that this was the way to become a successful blogger. But some of the topics I chose to write about were subpar and useful only to fill in the emptiness. These days, my quantity of posting has diminished but I hope you come to find that my quality has improved.
I quit every other day. Every other day I announce to someone that I quit. I quit my business, I quit my dreams, I quit my blog, I quit social media, I quit it all. I proclaim loudly and triumphantly that I’m going to move to Florida/Mexico/Texas! And I’m going to work at Starbucks/A hut/A gentleman’s club! And I’m going to start my life all over because I QUIT! This has been my pattern for the past three years. And yet somehow, I’m still here.
I’m afraid of sleeping in an empty house. I like to blame it on living next to a 24-hour gas station. Before moving in I thought, Oh! A 24-hour gas station! How convenient! I can get gas and Cheetos and beer anytime I want! I have not once bought beer, or Cheetos, and only twice have I stopped there for gas. All I’ve really gained from living next to a 24-hour gas station is the ability to be completely terrified by the slightest rumble at dark, horrified by screams in the middle of the night, and appalled by the thumping bass streaming from an asshole’s cars at 2am.
My favorite extracurricular activity is eavesdropping on conversations at coffee shops.I bring a book, setup shop near the most interesting looking couple, and pretend to be enthralled in my story. This seems to fulfill my previous life goal of becoming a therapist.
I haven’t had a best friend since I was 17. SEVENTEEN. Isn’t that when girls are supposed to be meeting the best friends they’ll carry with them for the rest of their lives? Well, I missed that chapter. It’s ok. I’m ok with it. Most of the time. I think skipping out on college had a lot to do with it. That and the constant changing of jobs, the continuous attempts to work for myself (i.e. alone), and my ongoing distrust of lasting friendships. Maybe one day I’ll be blessed with a BFF again…
I don’t like having lots of stuff. I’d rather have a handful of high quality goods than a houseful of affordable things. But if I don’t have a handful of high quality goods, I’m ok with that too. I’m just easily overwhelmed by “stuff”, you see. If I had 30 different pairs of shoes I’d feel pressured to get equal use out of all of them. And how would I do that? How would I decide which pair to wear each day? I’d stand at the edge of my closet staring at them for hours upon hours until eventually settling on the same reliable pair I’d settle on everyday. This is the same reason why I don’t keep cupboards full of food nor shelves full of movies. How would I ever make decisions with so many options in front of me?? It’s just safer to live sparingly.
You can't force others to reveal themselves to you but you can allow yourself to be revealed to others. What would you like to reveal?