I think you misunderstand me

When I first started dating my partner, we had a lot of fun (we still do, pandemic and all). We met at a time when I was feeling more free than I’d ever felt. Everything was on track, I was enjoying a Chicago summer with my friends, there was an ease to life that I’d not felt previously and it electrified me. I was also on the cusp of moving abroad, a long time goal of mine coming to fruition. I was the most tuned into myself that I’d ever been. Then we met. I was like a ball of light entering his world and you know what? He thought I might be ditsy.

Before you judge my partner too harshly for this thought, I laugh a lot, I talk a lot, I smile a lot and all of it just happens, often at the same time, often while I’m bouncing from story to story and idea to idea. Sometimes once the whirlwind is over people are like “Wait, was she talking about how capitalism has taken us away from our human roots or did a spry creature just loudly flounce about the room and leave?”

I think you misunderstand me. The depth of people often comes later. Should come later, in many cases. It wasn’t until he saw me working and on the phone with a client 2 months later that he realized the secret weapon that is my natural personality.

But more than that, there floats around a belief among many that people who are bubbly, open, chatty, carefree, one with spirit, dancing in the grocery store, taking random trips abroad because they just want to shop in Paris. Women who snuggle obsessively with their dogs, sing, tell stories, read books, fold themselves into yoga poses in the middle of the kitchen, laugh like bells reverberating, lick your elbow because it’s funny, play in your hair and their own, and celebrate even the tiniest of things with a flourish. Those women, they’re ditsy, not goal-oriented, unraveled, unorganized, and perhaps a little dangerous.

I reject that my saving intellectual and civilized grace is not specifically that I read a lot of books, but more that I have a good job in a leadership position and I earn a good living. I can fall back on the “but I have a successful career” and where the hell is the fun in that? We lasted a long time on this planet before we all decided to shuffle one by one into office buildings, sit at chairs all day, bang on keyboards, stare at a screen, and have forced conversations in subdued tones.

Being independent is considered a strength. And I agree that it is an overwhelmingly positive attribute to being human. But — and this is a big but — being looked after is a particularly human trait. On some level, we all want to be cared for and about. I joke with my partner that I don’t have to look both ways to cross the street because I know he will and he hates it. He wants us both to “pay attention” at all times. That makes sense! Of course I need to look both ways before I cross the street!

I think you misunderstand me. I can look both ways. I can build the furniture. I can do the laundry. I can cook. I can earn a good salary. I can be alert in crowds, always scanning for the exits. I have navigated or avoided dangerous situations in my life all by myself without someone gently tugging on my hand letting me know the coast is clear. My lady energy has served me well. But I also do a lot of other stuff and so sometimes scanning for exits feels exhausting, especially if there is someone else there to be on the look out on my behalf.

In some of my shadow work, it has come to my attention that growing up with an absent father has had all kinds of fun impacts on my life. Many of which I discovered long ago, but some that are coming to light just now including that while I can take care of myself, there is something really really gratifying about not having to because there is — gasp — a man to help me out. I had brothers who did a phenomenal job as supplemental parents. We looked after each other always, and still do. I expect not to be on high alert for my physical safety in the presence of my brother.

So I’ll say it louder for the ones in the back that might have left because I was being to boisterous — I like being taken care of by my partner. I like being guided through a crowd with a hand on the small of my back. Or being led by the hand with a sureness that I don’t have to exert effort, I only need to follow and trust. It’s like having faith in human form. Something strong and steady that acts as a home base, or rather, an extension of my own home base. Letting go and allowing to be guided, for me, is like coming back to myself.

When I get push back about “not paying attention” it’s hurtful. Because I do. All of the time. And I’m tired. And being cared for lessens that exhaustion. If you’re lucky enough to see the sprite in me, to be around in the kitchen when I start dancing for no reason — good for you, enjoy it. But if you want to really be close in my world there are going to be parts of me that need picking up and tending. Weeds to be uprooted. Dead parts to nip off. I’ll do that work for myself and often for you as well. As long as you keep an eye on the exits.