You Remind Me Of…
I had adopted the fashion of the popular movie Annie Hall (that had premiered in the spring before our trip) as my signature style and made it my own, and everyone – girls and boys – were wearing slouchy vests and neckties, oversized jackets, wide-leg baggy pants, and wooden clogs (my contribution to the look). They were so proud of themselves for keeping the secret, their clever costuming, and my joyous reaction. I was touched that they recognized I had my own look, but also impressed that they knew I’d like the spoof and the humor. They got me. I could be myself with these friends.
As a teenager, I was looking for my own style and sense of self, trying on personal images as you would try on clothes. As I became a young adult, I filled my wardrobe with an eclectic and bohemian assortment of clothing that matched my esthetic and taste. I wore clothes that spoke to my unique fashion sense: distinctive, feminine, comfortable, fun and whimsical, but also timeless and classic. I also admired the powerful businesswoman who headed the firm I worked for in New York, and took a page from her fashion look-book as a guide to my professional look. I learned that I could express myself through my external appearance.
One day, many years later, I stopped in Kerig’s hardware store in my town after I’d gone for a run, to pick up replacement flood lights for the ceiling fixtures that had burned out. I was waiting by the checkout counter for assistance. I’d come directly from my workout, and that day I was wearing a deep blue Lululemon pleated running skirt that matched the color of my car. It flipped in a fun, playful way as I ran.
A young mom, with a five-year-old daughter in tow, was buying paint and the store clerk was helping her. The little girl had light brown shoulder length hair with thick curls, and she had on a sweater and pink tights. She looked at my skirt, pointed and said to me, “Look at that!” She loved it. I showed her it had hidden shorts underneath. “See,” I said, “it’s got shorts with pockets,” She said, “You’re adorable!” Five years old. She was the textbook definition of adorable – cuteness overload. And she thought I was adorable. She made my day.
The mom finished paying. She said, “Michaela, take one of these,” handing over one of the paint cans. Michaela was holding a giant lollipop in one hand, but she took the small can of paint with the other. I said “bye” as they were leaving and the mom said, “Micki, say bye.” Micki waved with her lollipop.
"You know who you look like?" the man said, "that singer Weird Al Yankovic. You could be his sister." I stared incredulously at this stranger dude who had come inside the store asking about our volunteer program. I had been explaining the application process, and could see that he wasn't paying much attention to what I was saying. Then he blurted out that unfiltered cringe-worthy gem. "It's a compliment," he added when he noticed my blank look. I was doing my practiced you've-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me internal eye roll that I switch on whenever I'm confronted with extreme stupidity, and hoped he didn't notice. "Oh, I see," I said, and sent him off with our business card. I know I look like crap these days, but I must be giving off some pretty weird “Al” vibes.
Another day, the security guard who was opening the door for me, said, "I like your hair." I smiled and said thank you, tamping down the urge to reply with the reaction in my head: "it's so short. I hate the way it looks because it won't grow." His hair was covered up in a hooded sweatshirt, so I couldn't see it, and he was telling me about wanting to get more moisture in his hair (too much information!) I told him I applied a little gel and let it dry. Odd little banter as I was just trying to get inside the mall early on a Sunday morning to prep the store before the new trainees arrived. I thought maybe this would set off the day on a positive note and cancel out the one-way conversation I'd had with myself in the car on the half-hour drive, that same self-defeating circular discussion I've had on replay – the soundtrack of my drive-time. But I couldn't turn it off. I heard it on a loop as I unlocked the gate and went inside. "What are you still doing here?
A friend wrote on social media: “Not everyone will appreciate that you’ve evolved because they still have a particular version of you stuck in their head. It’s their problem though, not yours. Evolve as you please.”
I’m at the point in my life where I’m just not concerned with how I come across to people who don’t really know me. I’m not going to pretend I’m something I’m not. I can’t be someone else just to please others.
Another friend who is a gentle reader for essays I post on my blog, commented on a story I wrote about obstacles that hold me back. He asked: “Is this you? “Wow!” he said. “Hard to believe. When I think of you, I remember a woman who was smart, funny, athletic, attractive, and motivated to take on challenges, including multiple marathons…I would have said "unafraid" except I never knew you very well and after reading your piece, I realize I don't know you at all...” He continued,” You're a very good writer but it just doesn't sound like you. If it is, you have a very well-developed collection of coping mechanisms…”
For my current day job, I work in a fishbowl. Well, not really – not at an aquarium – but in a pet adoption center located in a public storefront, where I’m under close scrutiny by everyone I interact with or report to. There are security cameras, too, so it always feels like I’m always being watched and on display. A customer complained about my not paying enough attention to them by writing a nasty Yelp review. One of my coworkers came across the review and shared it with me. The customer had called me “an old racist white woman who was kissing up to other white customers and giving them special treatment.” It was hurtful and shocking, and quite unfounded. I looked back over the calendar for that day to see what might have been going on in the store to warrant such a reaction. It turned out, I was in the middle of meeting with a family who had booked an appointment to adopt their new pets, and I was helping them with their selection. No special treatment. Not racist. Yes, I am white woman working in a multi-cultural city where I am a minority among the ethnic population in the area where the store is located. I can’t deny that. But the word that stung was “old.” Ageism abounds and is impossible to avoid, especially in an environment where everyone around me is a 20- or 30-something millennial.
I don’t think of myself as old. However, compared to the rest of the staff and young teenagers who volunteer at the store, I am. That’s not an excuse for a customer’s callous remarks, or their perceived entitlement when they think they should be getting some kind of extra special service.
I’ll stick to the sweet little “Mickis,” avoid the “Karen” Yelp reviewers, and remember what it was like to have people in my life who accepted me for who I am – and even honored me by dressing up to be me.
The rest don’t know me at all.
