I used to have so much anxiety, I didn’t even realize it was anxiety. She took up so much space, squeezed herself into every crevice, toed the line of every doubt, barged through closed doors clearly labeled Management Only. She was everywhere. So much so, I just thought she was me. I am She, She is Me. 

A lot went into establishing my Turnkey Regular status. First things first, I had to go. Regularly. It actually takes a fair amount of effort to squeeze into the minds of others (which is how I know Anxiety is the Master of the Art) especially in the way you want to be seen, and to stand apart from the more flashy sociable regulars (in my head there were so, so many), I had to make up with frequency. 

Making the decision to go was the first hurdle, physically getting there was the second. And in the four city blocks between here and there lived a garden of social obstacles. Neighbors, Flamingo fans, high schoolers, preschoolers, porch people, dog walkers, the unhomed, strangers, friends, foes.

What vibe did I want to leave in my passerby wake? 

I often think about what my face looks like, possibly as a result of being informed I had RBF at some point in my career as a human. I used to be kind of proud of that. The idea of coming off as a bitch without saying a word never bothered me, because that meant I was successful. It was my armor. I wanted to appear tough. If I looked badass enough, maybe people would fuck with me less, give me less shit, think twice about assaulting me on my dark walks home. I also just genuinely love tattoos and wild hair and black clothes and roughing it in all the ways. I’m not much of a girlie girl. 

My dad never treated us girls like girls. We were all the same. If anything, he was easiest on Sean, the only boy. And maybe Tessa the baby. Oh, and also Tonya, the first. So maybe this is just the Dad I got? You can say a lot of things about the Dad I Got (bet when I’m 70 you can say a lot of things ‘bout me too, but why wait? All my siblings are definitely rolling their eyes right now, pfffft, thinking Dad was toughest on me, winky face emoji, my dears), but one thing he’s not, is misogynistic. If you were an idiot, you were an idiot, what’s gender got to do with it? And he’s got a zero tolerance policy when it comes to idiots.  

All that to say, naturally smiling all the time was never my thing, and though I can’t really remember anyone ever telling me I should smile more, I did have a boyfriend once tell me that I was not nearly as scary as I looked right before we had sex, and I took it as a compliment. I’m like a Doberman. Keep the ears floppy and the tail undocked, I’m just a svelte, lovable, loyal pup. Who will destroy any…

…way, I started thinking more deeply about how strangers view me in public after my last partner shared his insecurities with how he saw me out and about in Gen Pop. We shared a lot. I never wondered what he was thinking, which was a pretty refreshing place to be for once. And even though his thoughts sometimes stung in a puzzling way, I appreciated his ability to share (still do), because we both grew branches with every tell-all. Which is why he felt comfortable saying this to me and I felt comfortable receiving it as HIS insecurity, not mine. 

He was wrapping his head around my outfits of choice at this music festival. He saw me as this sex pot, strutting around, peacocking, seeking eyeballs. You’ll just have to trust me on this because you don’t know him, and I do, but he did not say this out of jealousy or judgement. He was questioning himself if I was the partner for him, but even more, if he was the partner for me. We live very different lives. 

At first I took it as a compliment. Um, HAVE YOU MET THE VILLAINS IN MY HEAD? You see me as strong? Powerful? Confident? 

Wow. Thank you. 

I mean, we all wear costumes every damn day, whether you realize it or not. We were born naked. Every time you get dressed, you’re putting on your costume for the day. You’re deciding how you want the world (or maybe just your dog) to see you. And boooooy, do I have a lot of costumes representing all the different Me’s elbowing for attention inside my head. 

I always get a kick out of dudes who tell women they don’t need makeup. Well shucks, thanks for letting us know. Of course we don’t need it. Some of us like it. Not everything we do is to please you. Some of us are doing it for us. I mean, what a gift. We get to paint our faces, tattoo our bodies, adorn our little limbs and phalanges with jewels, layer ourselves in garments. If I can’t wear fringe and leather and lace at a festival, tell me where I can. People absolutely adore Halloween. Creatively transforming their identity, being someone else for a night. Must we limit that to one night? Why does the calendar get to put limits on my creative expression? 

I don’t even wear makeup. But I certainly don’t judge people who do. Men, women, I don’t care. Wear whatever makes you feel good. Do what you need to do to please yourself. Not the peanut gallery. Fuck it, do it to please the peanut gallery, if it floats yer boat. 

Anyway. The thought exchange was a growth moment for both of us. But after we split, his insecurities became the foundation of my new self-consciousness: appearing too much like someone I wasn’t trying to be. I questioned if that’s how other people, like everyone else, saw me. Instead of just being me out there in the world, I began to dwell on how I was being perceived by the world. Self-doubt crept in, interrogating my personal bodily design choices. What was I attempting to pull off? It started to feel like I was trying too hard to be me, the only person I knew how to be, but who even was that??

It sort of started to fuck me up. I was painfully aware of my costume every day. Every time I dressed myself in anything other than my house clothes, I agonized over what everyone else might see, the judgement they might have. Who they might think I am trying to be. Who am I trying to be? 42 years old and I felt like an imposter in my own life.  

So. I tried something new. I started accessorizing with a smile. Not an over-exaggerated smile, just a soft, pleasant, daydreamy smile. The kind that when you feel yourself doing it, the rest of your body follows suit without asking permission. Hard to hate someone who’s clearly having the time of her goddamn life.

The neighbors, Flamingo fans, high schoolers, preschoolers, porch people, dog walkers, the unhomed, strangers, friends, foes. People change when you smile at them. They say hello. They see a friendly face, an open ear, share things they might not. Wearing one has the power to disarm, not only others, but the owner.

On too many occasions for it to be a coincidence, I’ve been greeted with, “well you look like you’re having a good time,” (I think it’s in the Old Man Handbook of Greetings). Oh, I sure am. What’s my alternative, sir?

Obviously I haven’t eradicated all anxiety from my body, like I said, she’s one tricky bitch, pops out sometimes when you least expect it, SURPRISE! But I now I greet her with a smile and we take it from there.  

Forever Yours,
The Girl Having a Good Time (in perpetuity)