I always hated it when people told me not to take myself so seriously. Hated it. I’ve always been a painfully sincere person who wants to do the right thing. I heard that advice as suggesting that I was ridiculous for taking life seriously. And, to be fair, some people did mean that.
But now, as fifty approaches, maybe I begin to understand. Over the past ten years I can see more clearly the ways I pose and cope—and how others do the same. I see the pain hidden beneath these behaviors.
Does this mean I should not expect better of myself and others? Certainly I should. These behaviors have real consequences.
But this is what we do, isn’t it? It’s ridiculous and wrong and very, very human. It’s funny, in a way.
If I laugh at it, it’s not a mocking belly laugh. It’s not a joke that says “look at you!”—rather, “look at us!” It is half amusement, half compassion.
So on a morning of big, complicated feelings I look at my coping instinct with amusement and compassion and I’m able to dial it down a few percentage points. Silly old bear.