At some point, I just accepted that I'm all blood, sweat and tears.
I'm earnest. I'm a member of Gen X, yes, and in some ways, I'm the one they market to: I am leery of groups, I see the grays, I am given to cynicism about any and all action. I need to watch that vein of cynicism, though. It's not useful. And, increasingly, I want to be of use.
I remember a woman from Colorado writing in The New York Times during, perhaps the 2008 election cycle, that in Colorado, they don't mistake cynicism for intelligence. So much yes: Cynicism is a pose. It's a way to hide. And I get it: If I don't commit, I am not held responsible for my views.
Anyway, I care. I am a wet, messy heart, throbbing. I am skinless. There, I said it. Hello, my name is Laurie, and I'm an empath.
More on that later---much more.
I nakedly care that I make things, that I communicate. I am enthusiastic, not quite like a puppy (OK, yeah, sometimes, super-duper like a puppy), but I am excitable. I have always felt self-conscious about this, because in The World---the world of men, the world of work---we are meant to strike a cool pose. The long, tall cool ones are rewarded.
I had a boss say admiringly, "You'd never know M. had a baby," as if behaving like an automaton, M. at your service, sir, was the ideal. And it was. It is. I always said that this boss longed for an office teeming with Audrey Hepburns, but I was Katherine Hepburn---opinionated and thorny and difficult to control. But Kate, she was a WASP. She was still so goddamned cool. Not the best metaphor.
I flush. I care. And I married a man who flushes and cares, who pumps his first in a concert, who sings too loud and way off-key. He is big and brave with his wild self, he knows, yes, the importance of being earnest, and he has no problem announcing that.
More on him later---much more.