The foremost question that dominates my life is, "How am I being perceived?" This comes to mind every time I'm dogsitting/housesitting like I am now. I assume all newer homes are littered with cameras and bugged to the brim. Therefore, I act stiff as a board and try acting like as much of an NPC as possible, with no desires or motives or interests while I'm in the other person's home. Assuming I'm being recorded, I'll do a lengthy prayer out loud before bed: "Dear God, please bestow Mr. and Mrs. Smith with a life of good health, safety, and prosperity. I thank you God for giving them this beautiful home and this perfect dog, and I thank you for blessing me with their friendship which is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Amen," I say with one eye half open, looking for the camera. Otherwise, I'll sit on the couch with good posture and read a book all day, trying not to move a muscle.
In general in society I think like a deer: if I just move as little as possible and make as little noise as possible, no one will notice me and I'll avoid danger. In the unfortunate event that I need to look for something in the house I'm watching, as I'm going room to room, I'll whistle casually and repeat out loud what I'm doing: "looking for toothpaste, looking for toothpaste, looking for toothpaste..." so it doesn't look like I'm snooping around. Meanwhile I want to do nothing more than rip my clothes off and dance on the countertops making chimpanzee noises.
I’m scared of making a bad impression, or any impression really, on a baby or I guess any kid younger than thirteen. The other day a kid came up to me in the store and asked me where they could find a grocery item for a school project they were doing. They were clearly nervous about asking me the question, but I was red in the face too: the whole time (time dilated because of the weight of the interaction, ten years passed, they had a Bachelor’s degree by the end of the conversation), I’m thinking, “they’re a kid that sees me as a big all-knowing adult, they’re interacting with me, perceiving me, this might become a random core memory for them, good god…” I suppose I don’t mind if a baby is looking at me - I might as well be a dream figure to them. In fact, I have more in common with a baby than any other demographic. You just don’t know what’s going to stick. The other day a very distant acquaintance brought up a bit I did about pillows 15 years ago in a random study hall. This was both terrifying and gratifying.
When I was a total recluse and ate nothing but junk food, I would find myself in the supermarket frozen section looking at the frozen pizzas. If someone else was nearby I'd pretend I was looking at the frozen vegetables until they walked away. Then, I'd grab a frozen pizza out of the freezer and quickly scurry away like a guilty mouse, as if anyone cared what this random person was going to eat. Then I'd lock myself in my apartment and come out again once I was obligated to for work or food, hissing at the sun and anyone walking by on the sidewalk.
There was just something so terrifying about being perceived; there IS something terrifying about it to me, though that fear has lessened. When I put my hand on the doorknob to walk out of my place, there's always that pang, and that tense sigh of "oh god, here we go..." before stepping into the blinding cacophony of civilization. I've never felt comfortable in the world. Walking through the world feels like perpetually walking the plank on a hostile pirate ship. I do assume everyone in the world hates me and that I have to plead my case as to why I should at least be allowed to go to the store, send and receive mail, and speak at least ten words per day. Anything beyond that, I’m willing to participate in a fair trial and hear arguments. I remember feeling in college that if I didn’t raise my hand and ask/answer a question in class within the first couple days of the semester, I could never ever raise my hand or say a word in that class for the rest of the semester. I don’t know why I act like that’s in the past, this happened just the other night: I’m at a function, I talk to a few new people, but there’s a bunch of others I don’t know there. 45 minutes passes with no introduction from either side. At that point we might as well be separated by the Atlantic Ocean, and introducing myself now feels like it would be as ludicrous as swimming across that ocean just to say hihowareyou before swimming back.
This is true, the other day, like a messenger from my guardian angels, I was in the thrift store - a Japanese woman comes up to me with a hat, pointing at the word on the front and asks, “what does this mean? Con…fi…dence?” I barely said two words before she said “Ahhhh, ok,” and walked off.
Exaggerations aside, most people, strangers or not, are usually quickly aware that I’m anxious as all hell and terrified to be here, and I have to try being fine with that. We may often try putting up some kind of front, thinking we’re protected or camouflaged, but people are far, far more perceptive and intuitive than we let ourselves remember. Even babies.
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