DumDum

I'm your classic extroverted introvert. Born in the 70s, the family was broke but I was free to roam. Despite having every chance to shine, internally I was a bit of a wreck. My brain couldn't decide: was I destined for greatness or was I the biggest loser alive? Turns out, I believed both. I spent untold hours remodeling my bedroom into whatever exotic locale I dreamt up: fairy princess lair, supermarket with conveyor belt, Harriet the Spy office inside my aluminum-doored closet with composition notebook and desk lamp. Scrutinizing myself in the mirror daily like a dermatologist doing a body check, I tried to crack the popularity code every girl other than me seemed born knowing. Well, almost every other girl. Anyone even mildly goofy gravitated to me like a magnet. I was their supreme commander, their sensei. To those girls, I probably seemed like Gwyneth Paltrow does to me now. That’s likely why my folks took my street cred for granted since it appeared I had friends.

But two consortiums in my grade I longed to be accepted by, vexed me: the Brainiacs didn’t bother with me at all. I hated studying, and that was their love language. I had zero game with them. Their startled avoidance of me only served to cement a closely held fetish for ultra nerdy men later in life. But worse for my fragile ego—that would also later effect my ability to stay in one friend group for very long— anyone cooly aloof, genetically blessed, or not even pretty—they could be rat-faced but talented at sports (fucking sports!)—seemed programmed to completely ignore me or torture me with tantalizing gestures of inclusion followed by sudden dismissal for mysterious infractions I could never foresee committing. I seemed to trip an invisible wire once I found myself infiltrating a group of girls who possessed an effortless, chill cruelty I could never quite sustain. Was it my obvious hand-me-downs? Some ill-timed fart, or the “oh, poor thing! She’s poor” vibe I gave off that would inevitably break the spell? Without warning or explanation, I'd be in for a blissful bit and then… just be out.

In middle school I fared a little better socially, thanks in part to my parents’ sudden split. I slowly emerged from my dork cocoon and gained some traction with the arty group and gave even less fucks about grades. Maybe being wrung out with grief over my dad’s abrupt departure for a life of tktktkt fortified my belief that it was now or never; I had to make my mark. I was starting 6th grade and wanted to debut as viable human being and not a total goob so I seized what little momentum I had. I was still craving to be acknowledged by the cool girls (I’d let go of the smarties). I was now walking to and from class bumping awkwardly into 7th and 8th graders who looked like full blown adults and felt I had zero to offer in the way of an attractive backstory, so I employed a clever little trick to hide my lack of popularity cred.

The summer before this, I’d developed a troublesome habit of jzuzing my alternative narrative, even to myself. I lacked any real world experience so I invented a first boyfriend, going so far as to write dozens of diary entries about our first date and first kiss that I slyly test-drove on my even goobier-than-I friends, Liz and Rachel. If there was anyone less charismatic with the boys than me it was those two, so they became my first fan fiction fans.

I was exhausting myself cramming after conversations, attempting to keep up the appearance of having been more culturally or geographically literate than I actually was. In middle school, I kept up a ruse with a teacher that I'd been to Europe when in fact I'd only once left New Jersey… for Florida. So long as no one fact-checked, I was safely cool. Instead of growing wiser, I was growing more hyperaware that I needed to keep track of my little head-bobbing fibs for fear of being exposed. I started to feel the noose of no backsies tightening around my throat.

At the beginning of my career in journalism and design—surrounded by really really smart people who showed little mercy for dumb-dumbs—my trick started to lose its efficacy. There were follow-up questions; references might be checked! I couldn't afford to be caught not knowing what I was talking about. Terrified of discovery, I set about devouring every nerdy book, obscure album, underground artist's oeuvre, and indie film I could, cramming as much "cool shit" education into my noggin as possible. Don't get me wrong: I was genuinely interested in most of it, and sure, your 20s are for self-discovery and precisely the point when you're supposed to be exposed to all the cool shit, but I was going at it aggressively because I felt inherently inferior to these people who knew so much and sounded so experienced.

The cacophony of negative self talk in my ears deafened me to the simple silent fact that nobody cared. No one seemed to care less what I did and didn't know, where I'd been or hadn't, what I'd seen, read, tasted… or hadn't. I wouldn't learn this for many more years, but after spiraling into exhaustion trying to prove to everyone I could be cultured, I made a tweak:

Recalling a tidbit of my father's early childhood advice I seemed to have forgotten in the nick of time proved invaluable for keeping my head above water… and with authenticity. "If you don't know something, Andrea, ASK." This took more effort than you might think, and it wasn't until I reconnected with my now-husband, Crugie, that it became apparent that a tweak was even necessary.

Reunited 12 years after first dating, I’d fallen back in love with my high school sweetheart. I was a freshly minted intern in magazine design and starting to work and socialize with, the compelling, interesting, well-traveled and highly educated creative types I aspired to be like. My guts would churn audibly when listening to their banter about bands, or books or movies or music or just about ANY topic I knew next to nothing about.

insert story about the dinner party and the ‘cul de sac’comment.

I rapidly discovered that instead leaning on the usual fake-it-till-you-make-it approach, when I spoke my truth with confidence but also shared my ignorance with humor and humility thrown in, I found that more often than not, most intimidatingly clever colleagues were eager to share their knowledge and even softened, revealing their own anxieties about being taken seriously. There was more tenderness afforded an honest “no, I’ve not read that book” than a knowing posture and a late night cram session, that’s for certain. As a consequence of this slight adjustment to my approach, books were described, their value explained, and if I cared to, I would read them. I would actually know “that book”. I got smarter, grew empowered. I grew a type of self-assuredness that people meeting me for the first time assumed I possessed all along. I’ve only recently learned a new phrase that sits a little squarer with me about caling up a mountain, lugging the baggage of self-doubt: “be it till you become it”. Admitting when you don’t know something is how you learn something. Not the same thing as giving up and asking for help, it’s slightly different;