or How I am Learning to Not Be a Defensive, Stammering Buffoon
I Was a Pretty Good Cook, But…
Eight years ago, I moved into the one-bedroom apartment of the woman who would go on to become my wife. I had presented myself as a man who liked to cook, and considered myself good at it. My wife presented herself as a woman with a very particular pallet. I was sure that — as had been the case before, the mere fact that I was a man in his twenties who could whip up a decent meal, and liked doing it — would put me over the top on the lovability scale.
But then, one morning, I decided to surprise my lady with pancakes. I had never made homemade pancakes before. You can see where this is going. I will spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say, it was a gory mess — literally and figuratively. That was the first time I recall actually doing what we refer to as “losing one’s shit” in the honeymoon of our relationship. It was bad.
During that fight I revealed what is perhaps my most long-enduring character flaw: I am hopelessly on the defensive. That’s what anyone close to me sees, but that’s not the disease, it’s merely a symptom. The disease is that I view my work and my credentials as indicative of who I am as a person. I am what my job title is, what my income is, how many followers I have, and of course, how good the pancakes I make are.
It Turns out I’m Just a Man
So naturally, when the pancakes I make are commented upon by the intended diners (negatively), my mind flies into defensive mode. I have to explain (man-splain?) how the perception of my pancakes is wrong, how they’re just like the ones I saw at so-and-so restaurant, how the lighting in the kitchen must be playing tricks with the color of the flapjacks, and on and on.
This happened again recently, and my lady life partner and I took the discussion up to the higher level. I claimed that I just feel like I’m always being questioned. Her admonishment to me was simple:
I am not the pancakes I make. I am not my job title. I am not the work I do. I am a person, more complex than any of my achievements or failures.
For so long, I avoided agreeing with this. But doing so is probably the best thing I can do at this point. I can’t latch my self-worth and self-esteem to random projects, jobs, and flour-based breakfast foods. Doing so is a surefire way to ensure that I fell terrible about myself regularly — that I feel I need to defend myself constantly — that I’m scrambling to prove myself to the world. I shouldn’t have to do that. Very few people should. But I know many do. So perhaps if this piece of writing is for anyone aside from me, it is for them.
I am not the pancakes I make. I am also not myriad other things I do or fail to do. Neither are you.