Perspective

I have spent most of my life listening, sitting back quietly, paying attention. I have spent most of my life looking on from the sidelines, getting involved enough to please people, but not so involved that I have any real responsibility. I have spent more time watching than acting, more time observing than participating, more time reflecting than moving forward. And in many ways, I've enjoyed that role. I attribute most of my thoughtfulness and wisdom to it. It's taught me how to take the time to learn how to read people. It's taught me how to notice the little things while still keeping the big picture in mind. It's taught me how to really see things. I have spent most of my life exploring perspectives, and I have spent most of my life enjoying it.

But there are times I see people converse and fraternize with such ease, that I cannot help but feel completely social stunted, jealous and pitifully self loathing. Why can't I do that?

It's gotten so much worse over the past couple of years. I have lead my life by the rule that if you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all, but equally important it seemed was that if you don't have something interesting to say, don't say anything at all. Part of that observation role meant that I understood those awkward pauses and glances after someone spoke. I understood the dangers of speaking and revealing stupidity and dullness. I understood the difficulty of disproving that impression once it had been made. And so I stopped saying much unless it seemed relevant and insightful. And even then I continue to be cautious.

Generally I practice things a few times over in my head. Sometimes I leave events and have long monologues on the car ride home of things I would have said and probably should have said, if only I were a bit quicker and braver. And I think, if only I were smarter, all of this would be so much easier.

But there is the other side of me too. The smarter side. The wiser side. There is the side of me that knows better. There is the side of me that feels completely out of place in a room full of people my own age, in a room full of people who find it so easy to converse and fraternize because well, they're just talking. I could just talk if I wanted to, about the weather and TV and what I did over the weekend and what I ate for lunch and how drunk I was at that party and what the boy I liked was wearing and how I can't believe that so and so would ever do such a thing to so and so number two. I could just talk, but I prefer to speak. I prefer to have conversations that go somewhere, that mean something. I could be more like a twenty-something if I tried.

I could be more like that if I wasn't so wrapped up in my own head. I could be more like that if I didn't think so much. But I wouldn't want to give up that part of me. And I know it sounds conceded, if not just downright awful, but sometimes I think, if only I were a little dumber, all of this would be so much easier.

Grown ups are constantly telling me that they wish they would have known what I have already come to understand when they were my age. But perhaps you're supposed to learn certain lessons later in life for a reason. It's not really fun feeling ten years older than you really are. It's not really fun feeling too smart or too stupid in almost every situation. It's not really fun not knowing where I fit in.

I'm sure there's some happy medium out there that I have yet to discover within myself. Certainly most of my friends, younger and older, are some of the smartest people I know, who inspire and challenge me to find that place between the timid girl who's afraid of looking foolish and the grown woman who's wise beyond her years. It's just a matter of trying to stop labeling myself, questioning myself, observing myself, and instead learning to live as myself, silly stupid smart me. It's just a matter of stepping off of the sidelines and exploring the perspective from the center of my existence. I have spent most of my life trying to get there.