Thursday ramble

I was thinking more about (emotional) safety. The first time I heard the word 'safety' used in that sense was at a professional training session on managing conflict. It pertained to the first step in having a difficult conversation: make it safe. It made intuitive sense, but it's hard to pinpoint what safe means in that context. In my last ramble, it meant going into a conversation trusting that you'd be listened to and heard--that you wouldn't be judged and that your words wouldn't be used against you.



I'm reminded of this kind of safety when it shows up and when it doesn't, but there's also something in between--when unsafe is too strong a word and 'not worth it' is more like it. For example, I felt extremely safe telling Anne, a mother of three, that I was exhausted and overwhelmed. Anne is not going to think, let alone say, 'who do you think you are to feel exhausted?' My mother--an example of the opposite extreme--would, in a heartbeat. Many of the moms that grace STFU Parents certainly would (but those people are not my friends). The friend who interrupts fits squarely in the unsafe box--first for interrupting all the time and doubly so for putting me on the defensive when she could be just listening. Without the second part, she might have landed in the merely not worth it box, with WMF. WMF won't (usually) say anything shitty, but she'll rock it on back to her at every opportunity. She's the epitome of the second half of that quote: some people listen to what you have to say, and others just wait their turn. It can be tempting to everyone to respond to something with, "I hear you, I went through something similar," but there's a fine line between that and "let me tell you about what this has to do with me."

I don't remember when I just stopped telling my mother things. I stopped telling her what classes I was taking in college because she had a fit every time I did. I stopped telling her what job and internship interviews I was going to in grad school because she'd try to talk me out of them. I didn't tell her when I applied for jobs because I knew she would ask me every day whether I'd heard anything, which is very unhelpful when you're waiting on a potential job offer. I instantly regretted telling her when I did get a job offer, because she turned what should have been a time for celebration into an attack on my character. I didn't tell her if I was dating someone, because she would tell me why he wasn't right for me. The last time she learned about a breakup, she turned it into an attack on my character.

You can see why I don't Tell My Mother Things. It's both surprising and unsurprising that even before mom lost her mind, she didn't see why I didn't tell her things. Learning to tell her things now--even meaningless things--is one of the things I struggle with in adapting my behavior to the new mom. The thing is, new mom isn't any more safe. She's just as mean and judgy as she was when she functioned fully, and I still don't want to tell her anything.
 

***

Even as I knew Anne wouldn't think or say anything, I was conscious that I would be much more overwhelmed and exhausted if I had a child or two or three to contend with. And that I would be all that and also resentful if I had a man-child to contend with.

One of the things I was trying to convey when I was telling Interrupting Friend (and another friend) about a recent breakup was that this guy had been, among other things, logistically inept. I'd wondered whether that in and of itself would have been worth ending the relationship over, but I made clear (after several interruptions) that in that case the question was academic; the relationship was doomed by more personality-driven incompatibilities. Nevertheless, I thought the question was an interesting one: had we otherwise been perfect for each other, would the logistical issues alone have doomed us in the long run?

Nobody's (logistically) perfect. I drop, break, and forget things all the time. The other day, I knocked over my table-top pool table and sent the miniature pool balls flying all over my house (I'm still missing one). In the last week, I've spilled wine and knocked over a tray of compost. And I would only want to be with someone who accepted me for the mess that I am. So who am I to resent this guy in a thought experiment for being useless?

I can't explain it. I just feel like, had I been trying to get done everything I needed to get done this week and there were a man in my life not being helpful--for example, if the one thing I asked him to do was make coffee because coffee was his thing but then he couldn't figure out a way to close the grinder even though there's an arrow on it, and then he didn't think to turn the grinder upside down so that the coffee ended up in the lid and not in the counter when he opened it--I would have lost it. Or not. It would have depended on whether it was an isolated incident or a pattern (and with this guy, it was starting to be a pattern).

Interrupting friend: So you broke up with this guy because he couldn't make coffee?
A.: Not at all. You wouldn't have to keep guessing at what happened if you just listened.

***
I once dated a guy who was super-logistical. He was great at fixing bikes. He was also an asshole.

I once dated a Bernie Bro before that was a thing (and vegan before I was), but he fit the Bernie-Bro mold. He was literally a socialist, and he had a lot of passionately-held views that he couldn't be bothered to conceptualize in terms of implementation. He was a Male Feminist. I couldn't tell you about his logistical prowess (his douchiness intervened before I had a chance to find out).

What about the others who got away? Maybe they were logistical masters. Maybe they never dropped anything in their lives, and they're happily satisfying the partners they ended up with, with their practical perfection. It's like that line from "High Fidelity": "No woman in the history of the world is having better sex than sex you are having with Ian... in my head." You can be jealous of anything if you put your mind to it, and I'm apparently putting my mind to how no woman in the history of the world is more fulfilled because her partner made coffee without spilling a speck, and then made their bed with hospital corners. Also, I bet they have a silent dishwasher that they can actually stand to run without leaving the house.