They hate me.

That’s the caption of a New Yorker cartoon. The image is of an actor on a stage looking out past the footlights at rows of folks standing and applauding but there’s a spotlight on ONE person sitting and scowling. I barked a laugh of recognition. Oh boy, did I feel seen. I think there are more than a few fellow artists that would recognize that alignment with the inner critic; the majority loved it, but that ONE holdout, well there it is, they see what everyone else missed. I am a fraud. I have no business on this stage, in this cast, with this company etc., and clearly they have an insight or a more legitimate view than everyone else. Or are they conveniently aligning with my bullshit inner critic, who has no insight or legitimacy other than to cut me down if I’m feeling any sense of accomplishment. So grim but true.

The cartoon came to mind as I grappled with my post podcast mortification. O M G, I’m like a toddler on the telephone, I thought, inarticulately nodding in lieu of conversation. Ok, maybe that was only a few, five? ten? fifteen? minutes, but it summed up the full thirty for my inner critic. In my head, I heard all the things I could have said, but in the video clip I seemed tongue tied. My inner critic focused on my discomfort at being visible as myself. This wasn’t me putting myself out there as a character I had researched and/or crafted. This was me having a chat, as ME. Ew? But you know what? I took a small action that pushed me outside my comfort zone. How well I did it, is secondary.

I turned up and had that chat. I applaud the Me that said yes to having a public chat about a woman aging authentically. I applaud the Me actively exercising this new NoF*@ks to give muscle, I applaud the more than fifty percent of me that got present. I applaud the inner parent that talked me out of letting the inner critic win another round. Misery loves company they say, but back home in Jamaica they also say, if you lay with dogs you catch fleas. (We quote the Bible and Shakespeare in equal measure). I’m being more circumspect about the company I keep as I lean into my ‘big age’. I’m going to keep pushing myself to turn up in new ways, as my most authentic self, flexing these new muscles (Pilates and otherwise). #useitorloseit I imagine the youngs say. I know, they probably don’t. I don’t care. This is for the vintage gals, the peris and the post, a battle cry to evict those debilitating voices and shut down their commentary. Act III has a new editor.