Shy

Painful shyness. I vividly remember being asked by my mother to give a store clerk money for what I wanted to buy. I hid behind her skirts. My stomach hurt. I really was not clear on what to do, and I was not about to let a stranger see me do it wrong. Very small me. I hate being put on the spot when I am not clear. I hate being watched. I was supposed to give a little speech for a class play, but when I stood on the stage in front of the empty room, I imagined the room of people and froze. Ran away crying. Never did the introduction.

For each of these, I managed to devise a strategy for "the next time." Bit by bit, I would stand on stage and talk. I would buy my own first box of tampons myself, because my mother only handed me bulky "napkin" boxes and embarrassed silence. I would yell back at my verbally abusive father, after I moved out and he no longer had a say in my life. I would stand naked in front of an art class. I would tell off rude people in an airport. I would tell a blustery surgeon to "Shut Up" and make it stick.* And every time, I would swallow a hard hot knot of deep shyness. Which got easier to swallow every time, if not exactly smaller. Or maybe I just grew larger.

A few years ago I heard from one of my school tormentors- I was an easy target for bullies, I cried so easily. Monica got word through another friend at the 20 year reunion, that she wanted to apologize to me. Which touched me. I remember her plucking at my stockings on the bus back from a school field trip. Giggling every time I answered a question in class, 'A' student dweeb that I was. I had almost forgotten, and long ago let it go. She was like a mosquito, irritating, but once gone, hardly worth the effort of hatred. Most people do unto others as they are being done by. I figured, after she could no longer bother me, that she probably had her own problems. The cruelty of children. She carried it around with her though, and I feel great sympathy for her sense of adult responsibility. Monica, you were forgiven long ago, but thank you.

I never wanted to be anything other than what I was. Odd. I thought thoughts that I was told were unusual, for reading, for being smart in class. Or I was called weird outright. Teased for my accent, from being around Canadian relatives. For the way I walked- ballet class and twisted feet. The way I dressed, home sewn clothes, natural modesty. I never could quite see the value of looking like everyone else though. Or thinking like everyone else. I considered them stupid sheep when I was in a particularly put-upon mood. For rolling up their uniform skirts in a fat wad at their waists to show legs to boys who were mean and spotty. I didn't want them to like me, I wanted them to leave me alone. I knew I was not likable and decided this was not worth worrying about. Accept it and move on.

Theater was a good major for me. Eccentricity was just fine, applauded, especially in clothes and behaviour. The Army was the other side of the insight, that uniforms accentuate individuality. The more the same everyone is supposed to look, the more character stands out. In the military I was popular for the first time, because of the way I walked and carried myself, for my wit and audacity. Among both men and women. I thoroughly developed my Fuck You attitude there. I do what I am expected to do, and am happy in my skin, and if you don't like it, why should I care? There were girls there who decided I would be an easy target. They were mistaken. They were frustrated. I was slightly annoyed, but mostly I thought it was funny. I knew the type, I ate that sort for breakfast those days.

Well, confession, two of them were running ahead of me on my PT test run. I was not about to let the little snots beat me, and I beat them to the finish line for the best run of my life. Felt wonderful. Petty victory. I was about nine years older than they were. Rare competitive moment.

I was asked by my dearest friend if I never felt self-conscious. Last time was when I was at a gala, and wondering if I was adequately festively dressed. I looked at not the best dressed women, but the ones who didn't quite fit their finery. Too much bad skin, too tight dresses, mis-matched stuff. I was not too bad. So, fine. I will never be the best dressed, or the prettiest. Never was. Nothing new. I won't be the worst either. And if I am? Well, first- who's to say? Better I just enjoy myself and revel in being the most outstanding. The thoughts of standing out do cross my mind, all the time, but I don't let them linger. I have but one mirror, and he loves me utterly. Fell in love with me when I was in camouflage with the worst haircut of my life.

I think, though, that the modeling is the key. Artists drawing a model draw themselves. I was there for reference, angle and anatomy and light. A muse. Their drawings were of their own vision, often their own bodies in general size and shape. The women drew breasts their own size, not mine. Knowing that I could stand naked in front of 30 people--not as an exhibition, but with confidence, is very strong. At home in my skin. I have been Looked At, I know how to take strength from it. I feel the shyness, but it no longer hurts, or controls. It just sort of sits there trying not to be noticed.


*Dr. D N, who I would grow to admire. Thanks.