The NOT part being how even though I might not have one single smidgen of a hairless clue about certain things, I will talk as though I do with a vague but knowing air, and most people listen to me because I seem to know what I'm talking about and I do so with such sincerity that they don't know until the very end (and maybe not even then) that my words were nothing more than a raft of crap that won't hold water.
(ewwww! Mixing metaphors is dangerous work kids! Know what you're doing before you attempt this at home, or you could have similarly disastrous results!).
I look at this as skill.
Not the metaphor mixing. The raft-making.
I would have been a tremendous used-car salesperson, if only I could have convinced myself that forsaking all my morals and lying to innocent people on a continuous basis were things for which the word "aspiration" was coined.
I'm not THAT good salesperson, and couldn't even convince myself of this...
To appease my fuzzy sense of unease at my shimmed-up and rickety attempts at a knowing and sophisticated facade, I have convinced myself that a lot of people forge through this world in a similar "make-piece" fashion, hoping that what they're pretending to be is what they're supposed to know and how they're supposed to act and that the scrim of believability they've erected in front of the real them really really looks like what they want themselves to resemble.
For example, I would like people to see me as a competent professional person with a firm understanding of many things literal and political, who also dabbles with some degree of success in writing and music, who enjoys witty banter with collegial folk of all backgrounds, and who finds beauty in even the most mundane happenstances of life.
Behind the scrim-shield of this fantasy-desire is that, in reality, I am a befuddled middle-aged woman who feels like a sham in her job, doesn't get Sartre or Marx and can't be bothered to learn to like them, gave up the ax and pen for "practicality" (and fears the rust will never shake loose once allowed its foothold), frequently sticks a clammy calloused foot in her gaping maw of stupidity and self-involvement, and often is too busy to notice what's going on around her.
And so, I throw up the screen, thinking that maybe if I ACT the way I want to BE, then the acting will take over and the being will become. I will evolve. I will emerge. I will, perhaps, grow up.
Yeah, right. As if THAT'S ever going to happen.
If you could go back to a certain age in your life, what would it be?
I'd choose 6, 19, 25, and 33 for starters.
Maybe one day I'll tell you why.