Lately I've been intrigued by the word "authentic" and how I hope, one day, to list it without pause as one of my defining characteristics.
A friend of mine recently posed the question,"If you could write a note to your younger self, what would you say?" Without much thought, I responded "Don't be afraid or embarrassed to be yourself--look up the word authentic." Huh. Where did that come from?
Why, suddenly, do I find myself questioning my authenticity? This introspective deep dive could be because my mid-thirty birthday looms and I find myself wondering the very cheesy, yet thought provoking question, "Who am I?"
A legitimate factor, but not quite the reason for my stirrings. I think my recent pondering is a byproduct of the shock and awe I experience when I meet people who seem fearless to be themselves. I liken the experience to having ice-cold water thrown at my face; disturbing yet oddly refreshing.
Wow, I'll have what they're having.
For years I've tried to conform my outward self to fit nicely in an appropriate category (I do like order and it seems so much easier to classify yourself using one or two words) like those used by interior designers: contemporary, modern, traditional, eclectic, romantic, country, shabby chic, funky, etc.
I try and try, but it's sooo hard!
Perhaps it's because I find such difficulty in describing my style--one glance at my music collection, or my closet, may cause some people to think I'm either incredibly indecisive or I suffer for dissociative identity disorder (aka split personality). Example: a Cape Madras skirt, a floor-length, wool plaid skirt and bohemian twist skirt hang within inches from one another in my bedroom closet. New England prep, meets Laura Ingalls (think Little House on the Prarie) meets Joss Stone--who dresses like this? Um, ya...that would be me.
If you click through my iTunes music collection, you're likely to experience the musical equivalent of a brain freeze. It's such a hodgepodge of melodies: from Frank Sinatra, the Andrew Sisters, Mozart, and Journey to Warren G, Debbie Gibson, L7, and Jimi Hendrix. Who listens to Ice Cube and Ingrid Michaelson in the same work out session? Again, me.
I'm starting to believe that it's absolutely ridiculous to try to put yourself into any one category, and for that matter, why would you want to? For the first time, since my more rebellious days in high school (sadly there weren't that many), I'm finding more comfort with the notion of not being bothered by the way others may perceive my "all over the place" taste and style.
So what if I like to wear the occasional flower in my hair and jiggle to the Gipsy Kings, or wear ripped jeans and rock out to Erasure. I shouldn't be embarrassed to admit that I like to crochet or that I only eat the big chips out of the bag of Ruffles (leaving the crushed, little ones for my husband to pick through). I should relish the fact that I L-O-V-E John Hughes' movies, Swatches and pickle, mayo and potato chip sandwiches!
Right?
It's time to head the advice I'd give my younger self and embrace my authenticity, not shy away from it. It's time to be real, true, genuine--and other words that define "authentic"--and to happily anticipate, dare I say welcome, the opportunity to meet people and have them think how wonderful it is to meet someone so fearless to be themselves.
Time to fearlessly, authentically be...Heather. Hello there, it's nice to meet you.
