Self-Love

I asked my new love if there was anything she didn't know about me yet that was worthy of a blog post, and she stopped me dead with this:

"What do you like about yourself"?

A species of dull terror stole through my veins at the thought of writing on that particular topic. Nobody wants to read that, I thought. It'd be a blank screen...okay, maybe not a blank screen, but how do I write the things I like about myself without coming across like a vain prick?

I floated it as a trial balloon on Facebook. The response was instant and positive. Friends 'liked'...and commented, telling me things like "with your honesty and skill it would be a fantastic read". 

And I feel uncomfortable even relaying that. Honesty? I'm an honest writer and (in my adulthood, at least) as honest as I can be as a person, particularly about myself. I don't think that should be particularly worthy of note, but apparently it is.

I'll let you peek in a window here. I have a profile on the most poly-friendly large-scale dating site there is. I haven't put too many pictures up: there's one I like, my current Facebook profile pic, of me relaxed and reading a book, and my tattoos, and of course a picture of Eva and I (one of our cats, Mooch, photobombed that one)--anyone dating me is going to know Eva exists and isn't going anywhere, after all; might as well get that right out front.

As you might imagine, it's the text of my profile where I let loose. I don't detail every last flaw of mine, but I hit the big ones (well, poly isn't a flaw, but it can be treated that way) right off. I don't drive. I'm pretty damned vanilla, can't do sex without a level of emotional attraction, and am simply unable to do anything even remotely degrading. (The last two are features, not bugs, as far as I'm concerned, but others may feel differently.) 

Meanwhile, it turns out sixty percent of online daters lie about their weight and 48% about their height, often using misleading pictures to perpetuate the deception.  This just mystifies me. Why lie about something like that when the whole idea of dating sites is to meet people face-to-face where they'll find out you lied in short order? It makes no sense. 

No, I believe honesty is generally the best policy. Everywhere...but perhaps especially on dating sites, since it's kind of difficult to assess compatibility properly when one or both parties have pants that are smouldering, if not outright aflame. And polyamory, of course, is a subset of ethical non-monogamy, meaning honesty is (supposed to be) paramount.

Writing skill? Okay, well, many people have remarked on that, so it must have some measure of truth to it. But again, I feel the need to minimize it. Yes, I can write...so long as what I'm writing isn't mind-numbingly academic. I have a plain-Jane writing style that owes a great deal to Stephen King. He called his prose "the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and fries at McDonald's", and not to put myself in anything like the same league, I'd suggest mine is the literary equivalent of a McHappy Meal, or something. 

It's a lot like my piano playing (which is another thing that has drawn many a compliment over the years; some people seem almost awestruck, which makes me incredibly uncomfortable). I am NOT a talented piano player. I'm sorry, but I'm not! The reason why can be summed up this way: I love to play piano. That's p-l-a-y, as in n-o-t - w-o-r-k.  I can read music, but anything even remotely complicated will not be sight-read, and anything your average Grade X Conservatory student plays would take me weeks of diligent practice to play at three quarter tempo. What I can do is play by ear. Or just...noodle. That's most of what I do...just...noodling. Playing whatever notes come to mind. My left hand is lazy as all hell and my overall fingering is atrocious...I just...noodle. But noodling is not something many classically trained pianists ever take time out to do...it's so unfocused! so directionless! ... which means I come across as possessing some great talent that really, folks, isn't such of a much.  

We are not taught how to criticize (constructively)  or take criticism (constructively); criticism itself is almost verboten lest someone think it's a personal attack. Which means, of course, that much of what could be criticism is either perceived as, or actually phrased as, a personal attack. When attacked (or when we perceive that we are), it's common to lash out ourselves while wilting inside...and that's part of where low self-esteem comes from. 

Neither are we taught how to give or (especially) receive compliments. And so:

• men don't compliment other men, because "that's gay";
• men don't compliment women, because "is he hitting on me?";
• women don't compliment men, because "he'll think I'm hitting on him";
• and, in my limited experience, women DO compliment other women, but their compliments can often have numerous layers of envy, jealousy and outright malice attached to them...or can be perceived so. 

And so there are a lot of people walking around rarely being complimented, and not believing the ones they do hear. I'm one of those people.

It's especially hard since we are so often told we must love ourselves before we can love others. I have found that this is not true, for me. I discovered, and relatively early, that I could love others despite intensely disliking, sometimes outright hating, myself. By keeping my attention on other people and their problems, I could dodge brooding about me and mine. 

There are qualities of mine which have received more than their fair share of attention and accolades over the years, and so I've grown to believe they are parts of myself that are worthy. I'm often told I am a good listener. My metamour, Mark, recently told me I had the most open heart of anyone he'd ever met. One love of mine calls me her mud, because I fill in her emotional cracks. These are things I treasure...tributes I will never forget. They suggest, to me, that I'm doing some things right.

I believe I have shown myself to be extremely trustworthy, which is why people tend to spill their deepest darkest secrets to me on remarkably short notice. The number of secrets I carry around would raise eyebrows, I think. I act with integrity and I have a work ethic that would surprise anyone who only sees me at home (where I'm lazier than a very lazy thing indeed). And I am inordinately proud of my capacity for love, of course.

Thanks to Eva, I have been gifted with tools and techniques to seek consensus and maintain (usually) emotional stability.  This is something I very much like about myself.

And I like to play with words, frolic in them, really, and I think I have a modest talent for doing so.

Then we get to the physical stuff. And so help me, I drew a blank.

It's not that I think I'm hideous (anymore). I don't (anymore). But on my best days I consider myself nondescript. I don't dislike my body (too much), but there's nothing I can say I like, either.

I had to go to Eva on this one: the woman I married was the first one to ever call me sexy. She noted three things:

• I have "beautiful eyes";
• I have a "sexy ass";
• I'm considerably stronger than I look.

The "beautiful eyes" I had actually heard before I met Eva. More than once. Ironic (eye-ronic?) since they're behind extremely high prescription glasses.

That second one....what is the fascination women (and men, for that matter) have with butts? That's the part the waste tumbles out of. Just...no. (With me, if I'm being honest: face first, always; boobs second, always. And yes, I get that milk-sacks shouldn't be inherently any more sexy than bean-blowers. So sue me.)

I will grant you the third thing. I have fairly impressive grip strength (comes from years of piano playing) and I really am stronger than a glance at me would suggest. (But smell isn't everything, ha-ha).

The latest term of endearment I'm getting is "big guy", which -- once I realized she wasn't being sarcastic -- made my heart pretty much dissolve. I never thought I'd hear a woman call me something like that. I don't feel like a big guy. I'm maybe not a little guy, but...I'm just a guy.

I'm just me.

Trying to love myself.