The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Looking Stupid.

Since rekindling my friendship with A., I find that most of my more frustrating/interesting conversations tend to be with her. I haven't seen her in person for nearly eight years, but the relationship doesn't need it, because the interaction on the telephone is reliable and easy, without the bother of finding time to meet somewhere or the discomfort of being aware of others around us. It's simple, in that she calls from work when there's a lull, and we go on the way we always have, debating politics and religion in the way that most friends cannot. I don't take her views personally, never feel attacked or belittled, and the give and take is furious, but not overly so. She is an ardent atheist, while I'm sort of more of a spiritual person looking for proof. She is harder than I am, more able to accept tragedy and find a way out of it, and she's practical about things like depression or infidelity. While I'm always looking for the reasons in things, she takes it as it comes believing that 'it is what it is'.

Conversations like ours are distinctive, mostly because my other friends seem to only know about family and social gossip, or what happened on Survivor the night before. They like to complain, like most people do, about what's missing in their lives or what they're working toward, never really seizing the present moment and seeing what's in it. I'm not much better, as I am always looking backward and forward, setting my adrenaline to top gear, rarely letting a moment unfold as it should. A. reminds me of this, and teases me, which I somehow find comforting. I suppose it's because she doesn't take a lot of things seriously, which lets me gear down, because I respect her easy-going nature, even if I don't always understand it.

When she spins out of control, I somehow manage to be the calm and positive one, and while I'm speaking to her in my self-assured tone, I find that I believe what I am saying. She believes what I am saying. Then, it's back to the order of things, with me ranting about something while I pace back and forth on my kitchen floor, and she chuckles on the other end, telling me I need to get a life. It works for me.

It's tough when my 'schtick' is not understood. I am the ranter, the one whose voice rises and who goes on and on about a subject without taking a breath. People who don't understand that there is an element of humour in it are always threatened by me, find me difficult and challenging, when really it is part of my act. The ones who 'get it', tend to be the ones I stick closest to, feeling a kinship in the understanding. Those people are rare, and I latch on when I find them.

My mother has never really understood my humour, but my dad does which is probably why we're closer. She sees my sarcasm as a threat rather than what is meant to be which is an attempt at humour, a lighter version of what I could also be saying. I always think I'm funny, and feel like an outright fool when other people don't get it, because then you have to explain yourself, and that just makes it even less funny and kind of sad. Of course, it works both ways, as I don't understand everyone's humour either, and my feelings get hurt when it doesn't compute.

Like when I was thirteen and there was a 'Christmas In July' festival in the campground where my family had a place. I was in an awkward phase, with permed hair and too much fat on my body that couldn't figure out if it was residual baby fat, or brand new teenaged girth. Either way, I was round and uncomfortable, knowing I had gone way beyond my adorable phase and was now officially 'in flux'. Boys made comments about me that stuck, like how I was pudgy or how my face was now riddled with spots, and I was devastated anytime someone looked in my direction. I took offense quite regularly, and spent most of my time with my grandparents who seemed to love me, warts and all. That July night, though, when a beer-fueled Santa Clause with a crooked beard started handing out presents to all the kids in the place, I was angry that someone had included my name for the festivities, because that meant I'd have to go up and receive it, in full view of all the critical eyes.

Well, well! said George/Santa when I reluctantly sat on his lap, They just keep getting bigger! I wonder how much bigger they'll get and if the old heart can take it!

I took that to mean 'Help me, this fat kid is killing me', and I marched back to my parent's trailer and threw myself into the bunk bed which smelled of moth balls and must. I was angry and embarrassed. He'd said it front of everyone, and they'd laughed from their bellies, like it had been the joke they'd been waiting for all night, and I cried into my pillow wishing I were anywhere else, or anyone else.

Not much later my mother came in to see what was the matter and she had a friend with her. They saw I was upset and I bitterly explained why, and they laughed (!), saying that my insensitivity was too much. What he meant, they explained, was that he was delighted that he might have women on his lap, nothing else. Why would I assume otherwise? I didn't know. I guess my own insecurity took over and skewed the interpretation. That's what it is, you know. Your perceptions have a lot to do with your confidence or lack thereof, and so I was even more embarrassed for my dramatic exit because no one got it, and they thought I was nuts. I read somewhere that shyness and insecurity are actually an extension of ego, which I thought was crazy at the time, but now I think it has merit. When you're always worried about yourself and how others see you, it really is all about you, isn't it?

Back to Anita, she's fun to talk to because she freely admits to having a healthy ego, and wants me to have one too. She will argue with me, and sometimes get angry, but she respects that I have different views and even tries to steer our debates into uncomfortable areas just to test the limits. She doesn't want to be right, she just wants the discussion, and I love it when she calls because I'm learning to be the same way. I am beginning to accept that I am beautifully flawed, that my perceptions can be wrong and sometimes insane, but that I am also entitled to those perceptions as long as they hurt no one else. I can feel gentle tinglings inside with regard to being ignorant about things, like it's okay to 'not know' everything, which is something that normally bothers me and keeps me quiet. Don't be afraid to ask questions or look stupid, I hear over and over, and most of the time I laugh at this, knowing this may never come easy. But lately, I am letting myself look stupid more. I am slowly asking questions, happy to know the other side of it all, despite the quizzical looks from the faces across from me. I want to know, and my ridiculous obsession with being 'smarter' than everyone else is just a stupid illusion. No one knows it all.

There is no God, she states matter-of-factly, and with certainty. I hear her smiling.

There's something, I think, I respond evenly.

How do you know? she laughs condescendingly.

How do you know there isn't? I laugh back.

We know we both view each other as potentially stupid, but we're okay with it.

No one really knows the answers to the big stuff, but it's a good thing to ask the questions, and to have a laugh while doing it. This is why I enjoy our conversations.

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