I like to think of myself as a tragic romantic. If I were in Regency-era England, I believe Jane & Cassandra Austen and I would be a lovely trio of sighing moon-eyed friends. Or perhaps even more fitting, I could be a long-lost Brontë sister, savoring gothic daydreams of torturous longing and and writing about female strength through trial. Yes, I think that sounds lovely. Minus the tuberculosis and early death, of course.
And yet...despite this swooning nature, this tendency to imagine in the dramatic, I find myself often feeling awkwardly irritated by real-life sentimental gestures. Well, let me clarify. Not ALL sentimental gestures, just a lot of the ones directed at ME. I suppose mostly I am irritated by them because of how ill-equipped I feel to react to them. Unexpected hugs from people make me feel unprepared for my buffer to be breached. Saying 'I love you' to anyone other than my husband, even family members, is often unnatural for me; it feels like my throat is closing from inauthenticity. Surprise gifts with no occasion leave me fumbling to express appropriate amounts of graciousness. Romantic overtures sometimes make me giggle.
In short, I am pretty much an emotional contradiction. My head space is full of grand observations and dramatic interpretations, imagined conversations & scenarios. Outside, there's a bit of restraint. Especially when RECEIVING. Life and some of the people in it have raised my guard, and so I hedge near the precipice of comfort when accepting real-life gestures of affection. Staying slightly stoic and self-deprecating is much more easy for me when you say something beautifully complimentary or present me with a token of your love. Or maybe I'll make a joke.
In my head, though...
In my head, I'm accepting with gratitude. Or at least trying to.
