Scary Woman

Yesterday a dear friend told me that I am scary. Or maybe I should say she reminded me of that.

She offered that reminder when I was venting about a campus committee meeting. In the esteemed group of faculty and administrators at the meeting, I found myself to be the only person who could make the projector work and the only person who was familiar enough with the initial draft of a survey to notice that someone’s proposed “additional” questions were already included. I was feeling uncharitable about the inefficiency. And I acted accordingly. Maybe not huffy, but definitely snippy.

Apparently, that makes me scary.

There I am. This picture is so terrible that I love it. For close observers: that is just a shower curtain rod, not a spike through my head. (Note that this is a picture I have on file for when I need to laugh; this was not actually taken at the meeting.) If I were better at Photoshop, I would have added the green tinge to my face.

My dear friend explained to me that I am scary because I am blunt. I prefer to think of it as “authentic,” and maybe no-nonsense and efficient. Smarty pants, picky bitch, bossy. Call it what you want. Dear friend suggested trying niceties. I cringed. I took her point, but still cringed.

Maybe I will try to be nicer. Or maybe I will just bask in the privilege of having survived long enough that my quirky style isn’t going to leave me friendless or jobless.