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This phenomenon comes in many forms.
I caught myself doing it last week with my own mother. My self-deprecating jokes allow my abandonment issues to peek through. I think Gen Z calls it a “pick me girl.”
Aren’t I funny, Mom? Aren’t I witty, Mom? Do you love me, Mom?
When the stranger in the grocery store parking lot said, “You should smile,” he wasn’t wrong.
I was in a foul mood that day. I didn’t need him to remind me I was scowling. Instead of anger, I perked up at the request—snapping to attention and plastering a smile on my face. Do I please you now, sir?
Making small talk (sometimes) feels like pulling teeth. Nodding along, feigning interest, societal conditioning reminding me to be agreeable and engaging even on the days I lack the emotional capacity to pretend to care. Aren’t I convincing, Sarah?
Helping. Always helping. Aren’t I helpful? Don’t you need me?
Little girls are taught to say please and thank you, to sit with their legs crossed, and to smile and nod. At 28, I am accommodating; I struggle to say no and rarely cause disruptions. Aren’t I user-friendly?
Sex—not always passionate, not always intimate. Sometimes it leaves you feeling like a receptacle for misplaced emotions. Trading flesh for fleeting feeling, but aren’t I desirable?
The real conflict is the significance behind the performance. Aren’t I supposed to care about what people think? Is it bad to want to be funny, to be loved, agreeable, and desirable? More importantly, what does it mean if I don’t want those things? Is it better or worse to perform or to opt out?
I am worried if I stop caring, I stop trying.
I think that I have decided that the worst thing you can do is to betray yourself; to continue handing out little pieces of yourself until you’re left feeling empty, holding shreds of yesterday’s once-whole tapestry.
To be a woman is to perform.
~
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