"You are so soft," I cooed to him, gliding my hand over his silky coat therapeutically.
"So why is it a good thing for me to be soft, but not you?"
"I don't have fur like yours, Georgie. It's a little different."
"You don't need fur to be soft or not soft. You just don't like to be soft at all."
He didn't need to elaborate any further since I knew immediately what he was getting at. "Soft" is not a tile I desire to include in my personality mosaic. In fact, I've made myself quite the artist in trying to conceal it.
I go to great lengths to achieve perfection in all I do. While a typo is reason to grimace, an actual error in usage is catastrophic. I hate being wrong. I really hate someone pointing out to me that I'm wrong before I realize it myself. I hate not being good at something, even in the early stages of learning how to do it (now you know why I never take on math or logic challenges!), and I hate when I can't keep up with others in a class or group setting. To me, being wrong, imperfect, or slow to grasp something is a sign of weakness or ineptitude--softness. But only for myself. I'm much more patient and forgiving toward others.
Although I prefer to be soft spoken (or communicate in silence), I strive for wittiness and high levels of energy in all interactions, convinced it makes me seem more intelligent, interesting, and outgoing. Seeming shy or quiet is another black mark for me.
I tout my independence and ability to look out for myself and cast aside anyone or anything I'm convinced doesn't serve me. I act as tough as I believe an intelligent, self-respecting woman should be.
But the truth is, like George, I am soft. I take insults and criticisms very personally. I'm deeply, deeply emotional. I cry at movies. I sometimes even cry at TV commercials (good thing I don't have cable anymore, huh?). And it requires substantial self-restraint to avoid sobbing at the sight of a dead squirrel on the side of the road. No, I'm not kidding.
I fall in love easily. Ending a relationship with someone I care about--regardless of how unhappy we both are--will probably always be one of life's most difficult tasks for me, and I doubt I'll ever be able to escape the sense of guilt that comes with causing another human being pain.
It's agonizing for me to have to confront someone no matter what the reason, and I get a knot in my stomach if I realize I need to fail a student--even one who's earned every lack of point in that F.
I'm gullible. I trust people before they deserve it, and am stunned once I finally recognize how much they don't.
Although I know I'm an empath, I rarely protect myself against absorbing from others. I rarely protect myself from blatant attacks. If I didn't have a sensei reminding me to keep my guard up in karate, I'd get my butt kicked every time.
I am wholly saddened by the way some human beings treat animals and other human beings. Few things causes me greater despair than reading the daily news.
And, though it may come as a surprise since I'm pushing myself to do it, sharing so much of my true self--fears, flaws, and all--in this outlet is absolutely terrifying.
"What's wrong with that?" George asked innocently.
"I...don't know. I don't know that anything is wrong with that," I conceded. Reluctantly.
"See? It's okay to be soft and show your underbelly sometimes. You just have to be super fast! Run from trouble if you happen to find it. Don't avoid it--or you'll never get to live!"
"But I can't run, George. That's the problem."
"You could if you started practicing!"
Great. I'm already dreading having to run once I go higher in my MMA program. Now I have a coach at home prodding me to hit the pavement.
Don't worry. You'll never need to run as fast as me!, he said with his usual giggle. How I adore it.
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