Page 39 of Fluke
“If you never disappointed someone, then you’ve probably never made yourself happy either,” she says. “When I look back at my life at this age, the very few things that disappoint me are the things I did that pleased others and not myself.”
It makes sense … sort of. But it doesn’t take away the pain associated with losing someone—a boyfriend, my brother,my parents—because I didn’t meet their expectations.
We sit in comfortable silence. I use the quiet to think back through the years at all the things I’ve done to avoid feeling like my inadequacies stem from who I am as a person.
I joined the track team in high school because my mother was a track star. I went pre-med in college. I’ve dated men who fit their standards but lacked in mine.
My fear of failure—not on a success level, but on a personal one—has gotten me into more messes than anything in my life.
“Can I ask you a question, Honey?”
“Absolutely.”
I scoot to the edge of the cushion. “I have to make a decision, and I don’t know what to do.”
“I cook when I need to think, too.”
My lips twist into a smile.
“Go on, sweetheart. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I lied at work and said I had an ex-husband. Then I got a promotion. But the promotion kind of hinges on me and my ex taking a trip together, and now I don’t know whether to admit the truth or … fake an illness or say he refuses to go.”
My breath stalls in my chest as I wait for her opinion.Please don’t think I’m a bad person.
“Why did you lie?” she asks.
“Because this fool tried to get under my skin, and I let him. He commented that I was unqualified to help build relationships because I’d never been in one—and I lost my cool.”
She grins. “Oh, he hit on that fear of failure on a personal level you were just talking about. I see.”
Damn.
Honey watches the realization of her point soak into my head.
I’d never put two and two together before, but it makes sense. That’s why Chuck bothers me so much. He knows what to say to trigger my fear of being a disappointment.
“You want my advice?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’d find me a hunk of a man to pretend to be my ex-husband, and I’d go off and have my little vacation, get the promotion, and tell Chuck to shove it where the sun don’t shine,” she says.
My hand covers my mouth.
“Your ability to do your job has nothing to do with whether you’ve been married or not,” she says. “And that’s none of anyone’s business anyway.”
“Right. But I feel guilty about it.”
She laughs. “Why? I mean, yes, sure, white lies are bad. Yada, yada, yada. But you didn’t say it to get the promotion, did you?”
“No.”
“So whose business is it?” She shifts around in her chair. “Look, if you go making this into a big deal, it’ll look like a big deal. Right now, you responded to someone’s out-of-line comment. You are under absolutely zero requirements to give them your life history. You haven’t cheated or been underhanded—so you let it go. You’ve not done anything wrong.”
Although I’m not quite sure I believe her, I want to. Because she does make sense.
“Once you hit my age, you realize how much emphasis you put on things that don’t matter,” she says. “How many times have you left the grocery store or the post office and get back in your car and replay an entire conversation you had with someone just to pick it apart?”
