Social and Emotional Kryptonite

Before I went to meet Miss Lolly for our shopping extravaganza last night, I had to go to the bank in order to get sufficient cash to fund said extravaganza. Since my new account has been opened, but I haven’t yet received my card (who knows when I will, thank you Royal mail, lol), I have to take a little slip of paper with my account details on it to withdraw any funds. I went in and the manager was there and asked what I needed help with. When he knew I wanted to make a withdrawal, he directed me to his colleague, who is the guy who opened the account for me last week.

We were having a chat and the manager asked me where I live (random, but not threatening, lol). He said that he was pretty sure it was my application he had been processing, because he had recognised the postcode as being right near where his mum used to live (and where I assume he grew up). I confirmed where I lived and he mentioned the same sort of area. His colleague sorted out my withdrawal while we all chatted and I was signing my name and writing my date of birth, when the manager said, “I was just looking at your date of birth in case we went to school around the same time, but you’re a bit older than me.” Alright, rub it in, I thought, while giving a jokingly shocked expression to his colleague, who laughed at his boss being a bit of a stalker. He then asked where I went to school, which was a school he recognised. I asked him the same and it turns out he went to this private boys’ school that is right near where my ‘rents live. I know a couple of people who went there. He said his mum only just recently sold the house and has moved to Dorset. He is still living south of the river in a nice area (good man, don’t go north, lol). The transaction was finished, so the guy handed me my cash and my receipt. The manager saw me to the door and wished me a nice weekend, before we all looked at each other in confusion. “Oh, don’t say that!” I said, “I wish, I was already hoping for the weekend this morning and it’s only Monday.” “Have a nice evening, that’s what I meant,” he laughed and I wished them both the same while laughing myself.

I don’t know if it’s because I become disillusioned at times with the human race, or perhaps specifically the male species, but when people are pleasant and friendly and seemingly genuine, without putting up fronts or feigning arrogance to mask insecurity, or playing mind games, I seem to appreciate it an abnormal amount. It’s at times like these that I remember I do actually like people. I read a recent interview in Stylist magazine with Evangeline Lilly (the actress who plays Kate Austen in LOST), who said that she likes the French culture because it suits her. Specifically, she mentioned the fact that in her experience, the French are friendly and chatty, but without being too personal or thinking that automatically makes you friends: "I want to have an immediate rapport with you but don't expect too much intimacy...that's the French, man. They will be jovial and happy and then you try to be friends with them and they're like, 'Whoah! Hang on a minute - we were just being nice,' and it works for me." I know what she means. I kind of like that. I don’t mind striking up a friendly conversation with someone when I’m randomly out and about, even if I’m never going to see them again. I think I am reluctant to do so at times, because here it is either misconstrued as flirting, a cover for some sort of con, over-familiarity or mental instability. It’s a little bit sad that we feel this way, but I understand it from both points of view. It’s sad how much of a startling difference it is for city folk to visit rural areas and feel taken aback just because someone they don’t know says “Good morning,” to them in the street, as a courteous gesture. We’re way too used to people barging us out of the way, shouting abuse, or pushing ahead of us to get on to a packed bus or train.

I’ve realised that despite going through some insecurities and some emotional discoveries of my own these past couple of years, in some ways I am actually more comfortable in my skin than I used to be. I don’t have that same degree of shyness that stems from youthful uncertainty or the sense of having to impress, nor do I feel especially bothered about what people think of me. Perhaps it’s that inner sense of self-assurance that just comes with getting a bit older, a bit more sure of myself, a bit more worldly-wise and a bit more confident. You wouldn’t think I was any of these things from reading this most of the time, lol, but when I’m not thinking about things too deeply, when I’m not preoccupied by the negative people, when I’m not analysing all the things I need to do and the progress I still need to make, I’m actually a relatively content, optimistic and fairly confident person. All decisiveness, strength and resolve seems to fade away like Superman’s super powers when it comes into contact with my very own personal equivalent of kryptonite, whichever of the many mini versions of it I have. I'm gradually identifying what they are and am trying to get rid of them. Now if only I had Superman powers with which to do so. I'm getting there...