Truth Be Told

It's been a long time since I asked someone if I looked fat in my jeans. I can't explain why (or how) I've stopped asking, but it definitely makes life a little easier. Maybe it's just that I've finally realized no one answers those questions honestly anyway; no one except me, that is.

I was recently reprimanded for telling a friend I didn't think her dog was cute. She asked and I told her the truth. I'm quite sure I'm not the only one who thinks her dog isn't cute, but I'm probably the only one who told her. (Don't forget, she asked.) Personally, I don't think she should have been offended, but maybe I have to pay more attention to my audience; what offends one, builds confidence in another.

Last week I was shopping with a friend at my favorite Italian paper shop. She asked me to make her some stationery; a request I never refuse. It doesn't take much of a huge sheet to make a pack of notecards, but you can't buy just half. When asked if I'd liked her selections I said no and this time my honesty paid off.  I'd misunderstood that the leftover paper was a gift for me. Had I lied, I would have wound up with a bunch of dainty, daisy designs that left me unenthused.  

This afternoon a student and his wife stopped for Christmas tea. Having not seen the house before, I showed Valentina my mosaic stairs on the way to the bathroom. I'm not sure if her 'wow' was positive or negative, but what came next was clear. She succinctly said she never would have painted the house pink. Instead of being offended I was tickled to think I'd just found a new friend that doesn't say everything through rose-colored glasses.
 
You can bet your britches the next time we go out for pizza I'll be wearing my good butt jeans.

P.S. I have no answer for the attentive readers that are asking themselves why the author would dislike dainty daisies yet paint her house pink.   

I Like Your Smile

I know a lovely lady that always finds help when she winds up in unfortunate situations. She used to say she had friends she didn't even know. Before social media, that phrase was special. Now it's the norm and being liked has a whole new meaning.

In Italy to find out what's up with their friends (a.k.a. send messages) most people use WhatsApp, unaware of the play on words. In addition to messaging you can post photos to which friends can 'say' they like by clicking on the green floating heart icon. Sometimes I post photos and sometimes I get green hearts. I'm embarrassed to admit that they really do tickle me pink (and green, for my preppy readers). I thrive on external recognition and I think most people who say they don't are lying.

My other link to being liked is my sports watch; nothing's better than a compliment from Mr. Garmin. When he tells me my VO2 max is superior, I feel capable of anything. His other comments include Poor, Fair, Good and Excellent but I passed to Superior early on in our relationship. I'm somewhat certain there's an error because I spend a lot more time eating pizza and french fries than running. It seems impossible that my heart, lungs and muscles efficiently store and use oxygen (that's what V02 max means) at a superior level. Maybe I've entered my data incorrectly and he thinks I'm 90. In any case at the end of a run when I find myself at the far end of Garmin's rainbow graphic, my heart skips a beat.

I'm sure some would beg to differ, but I consider myself somewhat stable. If flying over the rainbow and floating green hearts have a positive effect on me (or negative, if they don't show up from the right people) I wonder how they effect kids that are overweight, underloved and dumb as well as their counterparts, the pretty, popular and smart. I think it only makes the rich feel richer and the poor feel poorer.

The fact that these icons can momentarily mess with the mood of an aware adult, makes me feel very sorry for the teenagers (and kids) hiding in their rooms waiting to be liked. There's no need for an unfortunate situation to put you in contact with the friends you don't even know. Just go outside, lift your head and smile. It's a lot more effective than a smiley face.


 

To Speak, or Not to Speak

I've spent most of my life almost certain that my friendships were based soley on mutual appreciation. People liked me because of who I was; I had nothing else to offer. I didn't pay for dinner, I was never arm candy and I only had one friend in a high place. There was the occasional opportunity for a convertible ride, but that didn't spark a lot of interest for those over 12.

Unfortunately, I've recently started losing my confidence. I'm still not arm candy, I don't go out for dinner and my only friend in a high place is the one who climbs mountains. But living in Italy I have one thing to offer that most people don't; I speak English.

Instead of an invitation to dinner with students making me feel like the teacher just got a bushel of shiny, red apples, I find myself questioning the sincerity. When the oozing about how much they love the class and if only they had more than one opportunity a week to speak English is followed by an invitation to dinner, I'm skeptical. Maybe the dots weren't meant to be connected; but the years in the backseat of the car as a kid trying to figure out how conversations changed from one to the next has become an obsession.

Years ago I was telling a student (mistakenly defined as a friend) that I'd been out with students the night before. She said that she, too, would like to have pizza with me and asked if I spoke English when I was out with students. I told her not when it wasn't a lesson (even though sometimes I do). I've eaten a lot of pizza since that discussion, but never with her.

Sometimes I choose to test a new acquaintance's English skills. It's kind of like an ice breaker. I feel more like myself making new friends in my mother tongue. When I meet an Italian that speaks English well, it feels like a gift. But now, before opening it, I check to make sure that under the shiny, gold bow there are no hidden strings attached.    

Be Yourself

Several years ago a student asked if I knew what the Burning Man Festival was. It was hard to admit to a hip, young Italian guy that I'd never heard of an event in the desert where a small city appears and disappears in 9 days leaving no trace of its existence. Information at that time was hard to come by because in addition to being topless, moneyless and showerless, the attendees were also cell phoneless; meaning it was about as easy to find on the internet as my island used to be. But the little I did discover led me to the conclusion that although it's a place where almost anything goes, I wouldn't be going.

It wasn't until meeting a hip, old(er) American guy last month that I was asked about the Burning Man again. And though I was wearing a turtleneck sweater and sipping tea in Venice he didn't ask if I knew WHAT the Festival was, he asked if I'd ever been; because if not, he was sure it was the perfect place for me.  

This time there was no need to Google. I learned all about the Burning Man from an 85-year-old man that decided to go by himself last year. The reason he thought it was my style wasn't for the drinking, drugs and various forms of nudity, it was because he thought I'd love camping in the desert, pedalling through the sandy streets to admire amazing art and bartering instead of buying. Hearing that it wasn't 'all hell breaks loose' and hallucinations my interest was aroused until the final pitch, "It's a place you can totally be yourself."  

That's when my waxing interest waned. If there's one place I don't want to be it's with a bunch of people that are only themselves 9 days a year. Where are these free spirits when I really need them? If they'd come out to play every day, I wouldn't be the only weirdo driving with the top down in January, mixing plaid and stripes and eating pizza in the car with cloth napkins and candles.

In any case, I appreciate my peculiarity being appreciated by Ron, a Burning (with desire to live) Man. I can only hope that our brief exchange in Italy might remind him to be himself the other 356 days a year, too.