I was told Friday night that I was not "very cheery." The tone of voice with which this statement was delivered made it clear it was an accusation, and not the compliment I take it to be. I agreed, as it was not only true, but not a point one can argue when dressed completely in black, which, as a poet, is required in our contract. I then said nothing, noting I was feeling a psychic static run through me, as if I'd accidentally bitten down with a filling onto a piece of foil.
So, I silently assessed, Good Girl was still hanging out in me somewhere, just waiting for her opportunity to point out to me once again that I might actually have a boyfriend if I would simply wear pastels and not say things like "I find that highly flawed logic" to men trying to make dinner conversation on a first date. She was pretty smug, feeling sure her time had finally come, and soon life would be a series of make-overs and giggling girlfriends doing each others hair. She has, you see, remained perpetually 16--that awful delusion age when you believe that your breasts have brought with them unending potential for a gorgeous life, if you can just find the right top to go with them.
Artists are not actually known for being highly socialized, or good at pretending, which I believe are very often the same thing. I actually have only two speeds: the truth, or silence. I've learned to allow myself that constipated look as I remain quiet, as people take it for thoughtful listening instead of the low-level frustration I'm really experiencing at not blurting out my insightful but potentially-insulting observations. This accounts for my near hysteria when I finally do hit upon something both witty and impersonal. I shout it out, like a trader in the stock exchange whose "sell" number has finally arrived, further cementing my reputation as one of those friends best kept to Facebook.
I decided to have a talk with this inner teen, to put her down once and for all. She could, I decided in the cab going home, leave willingly, listening to reason and experience. Or I could silence the idiot using a water glass filled with ice and vodka. She chose the latter, which left me with puffy eyes the next morning but a quieted soul, residing once more in my authentic intense nature. And smiling, which can look exactly like cheerful. As long as I'm not talking.
