Audacity
Sometimes you find it in the most unlikely places.
His mouth was stained. He was wine-drunk.
He slowly tilted his head back. At first, I thought the drunkenness had made it feel too heavy. But then, his hand moved to his neck, where he gingerly clasped himself—and what appeared to be an equally drunk garden slug emerged from his mouth.
It was his tongue.
The combination of poor lighting and deep red wine staining of his lips created a visual straight out of a horror movie.
His eyes were closed, then he smiled.
I caught sight of myself in the small rectangle at the corner of my screen. I’m never going to be accused of having a good poker face, that’s for sure.
The way he slowly lobbed his head back into place—his hand flopping ineloquently into his lap, his glazed-over eyes looking at the camera—it was clear he thought he’d just done something sexy.
The contents of my stomach made a swift appearance at the back of my throat. I swallowed hard, determined not to let them end up in my lap.
Much to my dismay, this wasn’t even the most grotesque part of the call.
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot. And I will father your children. To be clear, I’m reluctant to do so, because I don’t know how I’ll explain this to my daughters.”
I’m sorry, WHAT?
His daughters are only a handful of years younger than I, and have children of their own. He is a grandfather.
I am childfree by choice.
“That’s a lie. All women who say that lie. You’re not a spring chicken anymore. We need to hurry up and do this. We can have sex in my garden. I’ve always wanted to have sex in the garden. I can’t explain it. I don’t want to send my sperm to you in the mail.”
This was the turning point for me. I was no longer interested in right-fighting. My out was to ghost this wilting potato.
Whatever basic level of human respect I had for this skinsuit of cottage cheese immediately departed my being.
At this point, you might be asking, “Sarah, is this an excerpt from one of your creative writing projects?”
Nope.
Although it will undoubtedly inspire some of my future horror writing.
Sadly, this is an actual exchange between me and a nearly 70-year-old man, several months ago.
My amazing, dear friend
posted a great piece about imposter syndrome:
Which, reminded me that sometimes thinking about the worst, most mediocre person with all the audacity is enough to kick imposter syndrome (or low confidence) in the ass.
This man constantly lied, crossed boundaries, interrupted, threw insults, and had all the confidence and esteem of a much taller, younger, more handsome man. For example, he laughed when I said that I’ve chosen to remain single these past 5 years.
“You’re not single by choice! You’re single because no self-respecting man wants a cripple.”
Coming from a man who had done everything short of overtly begging me to be his girlfriend. A man whose hair was as committed to his head as he was to decency. (Refer to above photo)
He was dumbfounded that I wasn’t remotely interested, and mad as hell that his negging and various other manipulation tactics fell flat. He genuinely couldn’t wrap his brain around the fact that I didn’t find him attractive or appealing in any way, shape, or form. He went so far as to question my mental health, using his position as a retired psychiatrist to tell me there was something seriously wrong with me.
All of this is to say: If he can be that confident, I can certainly afford to be more confident. And you can too.
Funny, isn’t it? How our own audacity can be borne of the unwarranted audacity of another.
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