dangerous dog and the smiling facade

Yesterday, Lakshmi finally succeeded in tripping me up on the stairs.

I was on the phone with This Guy I’m Seeing (TGIS?). I was on the stairs, complaining to him about this “game” Lakshmi likes to play, of cutting me off on the staircase, getting in the way, trying to nip at my feet and the like. I’ve been trying to break her of this habit, but obviously with little success. TGIS started talking about something else, and that’s when it happened.

I went down hard, landing squarely on my bum and one elbow. I also spilled hot tea on myself in the process. Lakshmi thought it was hilarious. But I didn’t make a sound. I’m fairly certain TGIS didn’t hear a thing, and I didn’t mention it. Just got up and walked it off.

Of course, now I’ve got a beautiful — and rather tender — shiner on my right cheek, and a rug burn (the stairs are carpeted) on my left elbow.

This has been an interesting reminder of this talent instilled in me by my family of origin, of pretending everything’s fine. It’s not a matter of picking yourself up, dusting yourself up, and starting over again — that speaks more to resilience and perseverance, and helps build personal courage.

This has more to do with denying that anything ever went wrong in the first place.

I was raised not to draw any potentially negative attention to myself. Don’t make a scene. Put on a happy face and act as if everything is blissfully fine. All the time. I got really good at this, and grew up terrified that anyone might witness my vulnerability. Like Lakshmi on the stairs, this is a dangerous game.

My friend, Heather Strang, has written — in her new Should-Free Life column for Amaze Magazine — about how we need to remove the word “fail” from our vocabulary, that there are no failures but just new experiences.

The cranky side of me — still smarting from that blow to my backside — wants to point out that “experience is what you get when you don’t get want you want.” But she makes a good point. We place way too much judgment on ourselves, and that’s what colors an experience as being “good” or bad.”

I put a lot less pressure on myself these days than I did when I was younger, but the default is still there.

My expectations of myself have always been way too high. This has pushed me to wild success in many areas of my life, but I’ve also paid a price for it. For years, I was rarely satisfied with my performance or accomplishments. I always thought I could have — should have — done better. And when facing hardships, there has been a strong tendency to view difficulty and disappointment as reflections of my personal short-comings. Which is bloody ridiculous.

Falling on the stairs yesterday was not an indication of my worth as a human being, and neither are the other challenges I’m struggling with now. Being perfect is not the same as being happy. If I’m hurting, it’s okay for me to say so.

Again, I’m much better at this — breathing, getting back on my feet, and getting back to it — than I used to be. When I find myself sliding into that old smiling facade, that’s a good sign that I need to let go and just get over myself.

So maybe I'll give TGIS a call today. Tell him I fell on my butt, that it hurts to sit, that I really do hate mushrooms, and that my life isn't perfect. All part of the new, improved, imperfect Jen.