Living In The Wild
On Christmas Eve, I participated in an incredibly First World event. Dining with Orcas. We sat on the deck of a huge pool, where, behind a thick glass partition, killer whales popped up now and then to demonstrate their theme park skills: waving, showing their flukes, and doing a jump or two.
These were the orcas of Sea World, relatives of the once-famous, Shamu. One of the whales was named Corky, and she was almost 40-years-old. There was a younger male whale whose dorsal fin drooped over, and the trainers explained that it was normal. Normal for a whale who was no longer living in the wild.
Santa arrived later.
There was a buffet.
Was this a First World problem, or simply problematic? Yeah. It was both. In a lot of ways. But, I approached it with a new attitude. I went in with an open mind. I left my pride at the door. I embraced the fact that it was a family event; not necessarily something I would choose, but something we would choose. The family unit, not the self.
Plus, it was Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake. Pun intended. Couldn’t I be at least in the mood to celebrate?
Yes. It was, after all, the one day that I actually felt in the “spirit” during the otherwise challenging season I’ve found myself in the last few years at the end of December.
At the dinner table, I felt eyes on me, and they weren’t Corky the whale’s. It was from a fellow father across from our four top. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was gawking at.
He broke the ice.
“Where are you from?” he said, but not in a friendly, curious way. It was flirting with incredulity. And hey, was he actually flirting with me?
“New Mexico,” I said.
“Oh. I thought maybe you were from Europe or something. Your long hair, your sweater. I was wearing my long hair down and had on my Native American-designed thunderbird cardigan. Yeah, I was looking like a typical hedonistic hippie who dined with orcas on Christmas Eve.
We exchanged a few pleasantries, and then I went back to eating. I made a quick trip to the buffet to collect more fried somethings for my kids. I continued on with my meal, and then after a short while, he interjected again.
“Wow, a square meal. So healthy. We just like these corndogs.”
On my plate was a baked chicken thigh and spinach. The most healthful options I could find at the buffet. I didn’t know what to say back to him. I suddenly felt a strange mixture of flattery and judgement. I was filled with both hubris and embarrassment.
I chose some folksy retort.
“They are good! But I’m just trying my best!”
What in the hell was I saying? He seemed to move on, finally turning his attention away from me, but I felt his glances a few more times. The party broke up, we said our good nights and Merry Christmases and moved on.
I realized later what was going on there. I was trying my best. I was indeed calm and confident that night. I was feeling strong and healthy. I had made good food choices, and I was looking and feeling good, but I wasn’t flaunting anything. I was just being me, and it was a fellow human, an admirer, sure, who was drawn to my newfound vibration.
Listen: I don’t walk around looking for attention, but I’ve noticed that lately, I’m getting it. I walk into places, and people look. Folks want to talk to me. They share things with me. They open up.
How did I get here? Well, I’ve always felt like I was wearing a shirt that said “Camp Counselor” the way people often approach me, but in the last year or two, I’ve invested in self-improvement to the point that I can see it and feel it in myself. I’m letting the light within me shine outwardly; a light I’ve tended to keep dim. I’m finally absorbing and metabolizing compliments rather than deflecting them with self-doubt.
I’m at last seeing what that table neighbor saw in me: someone who is healthy inside and out. Someone who finally knows that the line between confidence and uncertainty takes time to cross, and that animals belong in the wild, not in tanks.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: Unsplash
