It’s a Flush
I was never a really athletic kid, growing up. I was more of the, “What? There’s a Meryl Streep marathon on Showtime? Right now? Oh my gosh—I have to be watching that, right now!” kind of kid. Yeah. Concerns all around. In fact, when I finally won an award for playing tennis in high school, it was the “Poker Face” award, for always smiling, whether I was winning or losing. (Mostly because I knew there’d be ice cream and a Sex and the City debate after the match, but what the coach didn’t know…)
Oh, how things come full circle.
Somehow, these days I can’t so much as tell a white lie without giving myself away. If I have a bad day, people tell me about it. “How are you feeling? You sure? You don’t seem fine. I can see it in your eyes."
Whatever happened to the days of New England WASP-dom? Of women in Chanel suits looking stoic and blank faced? ...What is the male version of that?
I know that’s not necessarily healthy. I wouldn’t want to live a life in which it was necessary for me to tell a straight faced lie and “pass.” But it’s much more difficult to have a smooth conversation when all of your cards are already on the table. I’m afraid I’m already transitioning into my optimal ideal of myself as a senior citizen: ornery in a blatant disregard for social courtesy kind of way. “Nah, she needed to know not to wear those lazy pants in public ever again!” “Oh—you wallpapered your bathroom with brown clouds on a yellow background; what was you thinking?” It’s on my face. I can’t control it.