How well do we know ourselves?
You know what's really weird?
Spending days, weeks and months rooting around in your own past. It's sometimes cool, sometimes painful, but most of the time? It is unsettling.
As someone who is surprisingly clueless about her own strengths and weaknesses, the truth has to smack me in the face before I get it.
Case in point? I've spent the last decade or so believing that I have a pretty great sense of style. I'm the whimsical wood fairy with a touch of cowgirl! (Let's pretend that sweat pants and leggings are just "exceptions" and in no way part of my style.)
I used to think I know what looks good on me and my body type (now I don't know what to believe any more), and I prided myself in wearing clothes that are appropriate for any given situation.
Well.
I was happily typing away yesterday, recalling my short-lived, yet intense stint in Forestry. To do that, I had to time-travel all the way back to the year 1998, aka the midst of my decade-long "I-hate-my-body" phase.
Which makes what happened next even more mystifying.
This is me in the year 2000. See my face? I was not a happy camper in the forest.
I had just committed the most rebellious act to date, skipping school repeatedly in favour of going to bars and hanging out with the resident bad boy. I used to be the teacher's pet, and my parents were under the (mistaken) assumption that I still was. Nuh-uh.
I was angry and worried about the future and unhappy with my body and just overwhelmed with it all, and I didn't give a damn about Latin, Geometry, or - irony of ironies - English.
Anyway, one of my teachers ratted me out to my parents, and they were at first incredulous, and then pissed.
I had to come up with a plan to make them simmer down again, fast.
At the time, my mom raved about a new customer of theirs, a forest ranger who had moved into town recently with his pretty wife and 2 young kids. Somehow it came up that I was a year away from graduating High School, unsure (an understatement if there ever was one) of what to do with myself afterwards, and he offered to take me along for a week.
With nothing better to do (plus, he was HOT), I agreed.
Which brings me back to the point I'm trying to make: Style. Or the lack thereof.
Because I completely bombed my outfit for the first day on the job.
Let me ask you first, though: What would you wear in an unseasonably hot June? In the woods? It's not like I was going to be in an office environment or anything.
While you're contemplating this important question, let me tell you what I wore:
An outdoorsy button-down shirt with rolled up sleeves (It had one of those little buttons in the sleeve to roll it up and make it look tidy), hiking boots - and shorts. Fairly short ones at that. But, in my defense, they were hiking shorts! In a tan colour, with as many practical utility pockets as they could fit on the limited amount of fabric available!
I sauntered into the office of the big boss ranger (my guy's boss), and he took one look at me, raised his eyebrows, and said curtly: "You really shouldn't wear shorts here."
I almost died of embarrassment. And until yesterday, I had completely forgotten suppressed that memory.
But once I had opened that can of worms, other incidents rose up to the surface:
The black top I wore for an interview at a farm market and that I thought was perfectly respectable, but where the manager leaned forwards at the end, and told me that while I got the job "you can't wear low-cut tops like that to work". Again, I was mortified.
That's the top in question. On second thought, maybe it was a wee bit too low? That's in 2003,
with my 2 youngest stepdaughters.
Later I learnt that all of management were very religious, and their definition of "low-cut" was much more strict than most people's. Still, that's a faux-pas that one shouldn't make at 25 years old.
Or the heels and grey pant suit I wore for job shadowing at a hospital (incidentally, the same hospital I ended up working for 6 years), when what most people wear for that are comfortable pants and runners. I was so overdressed that the lady who greeted me looked startled when I told her that I'm a prospective student - she probably thought I'm a sales rep. Her comment was: "Are you sure you will be okay on your feet with those heels?"
Duh, got it wrong again (-> insert face-slap emoji)
I suspect that many of us have stories like this. And it's funny in hindsight.
But, the thing is, for years I thought I was pretty damn good at dressing myself! I even fancied myself as a fashion blogger (ish) for a while. (No worries, not any more; these days, I only take outfit photos for fun, and they're getting fewer and fewer).
If I'm so off in something seemingly as easy as clothes, where else am I deluding myself?
I understand more and more why people talk to shrinks. It's gotta be easier to lie on a couch and let it all spill out, and then have someone explain to you what it means, instead of painstakingly trying to figure it out yourself.
Do you feel me? Do you sometimes feel unsure about who you are?
All I want is someone to tell me exactly who I am.
To give me a user's manual for myself: Tell me my strengths, tell me what I'm good at, and also tell me what my weaknesses are (be gentle, please!), and what goals of mine are ridiculous.
But then again, as I'm typing this, I can already sense the rebellious teenager in me bristling: If I want to be a writer, and someone tells me I'm not good at it, I'll show them!
Maybe none of us knows ourselves very well.
Maybe life's purpose is to figure out what we were sent to this world for? What the reason for it all is?
And if there is no reason, I guess we can just stop worrying about it and enjoy the hell out of this ride.
It's a win/win, when you think about it!
One thing I know for sure: I will continue to mess up, wear the wrong clothes and say the wrong things, because that's apparently who I am.
On the bright side, it makes for funny stories!
And telling stories may just be my reason to be on this earth.
Have a fabulous week!
xoxo Miriam
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Vol. 14