No More Mrs. Nice Gal

I'll still be good, but that's something different altogether.

The older I get, the less I want to be out in public. Which is good, because the older I get, the less I should be out in public.

Let me give you an example: the other night I was at a place that shall not be named because I truly don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. It was a lovely place, A classy place. To wit: a place I probably should not have been.

I knew some of the people I was with, but not all. My husband, Mike, who has less business being out in public than I do, was there, but as is typical for him he wandered off and did not participate in the group conversation.

The group conversation, I have to say, was somewhat sophisticated. We were drinking wine, eating from curated charcuterie boards, and discussing art. Really. One gentleman, who had a PhD (I know this because he mentioned it more than once) in another subject began lecturing a friend of mine on Claude Monet’s use of silver nitrate daguerreotype photography, including a rundown of the process, and why he prefers painting with acrylics instead of oils. (Oils, he says, yellow over time--just look at those renaissance paintings. I don’t want that to happen to mine. Ha ha, I replied. I just want someone to be interested in looking at my crap 400 years from now.)

What Dr. Lecture did not know is that my friend to whom he was directing his remarks was an art teacher for many years. She knew all about silver nitrate daguerreotypes, including how to pronounce it, and she also knew that the reason why Renaissance oils yellowed was because of the egg yolks they used to bind the pigments into the oil.

I started getting so aggravated by all this mansplaining that I couldn’t keep up the polite laughter with the rest of the crowd and semi-politely excused myself to hide in a bathroom stall for as long as I thought I could without someone coming to check on me.

I came back to ooh-ing and aah-ing from the crowd to a list of his professional accomplishments.

So here’s the thing. Was I rude by remaining stony- faced in front of rehearsed jokes and braggadocio? Yep. Certainly. But was he rude for monopolizing the conversation, assuming we were ignorant to his subject and expecting us to be impressed by his base-level knowledge? Also yes. Do two rudes make a polite? Probably not. But I’ll tell you this prayer I’ve added to my list of regulars: Lord, give me the confidence of a mediocre white man.

I’ve given this exchange a lot of thought. I probably could have wrestled control of the conversation if I’d really been inspired. I could have lectured about music, law, or writing. I could have talked about awards and victories. So, probably, could anybody else at the table. But you and I both know that if I had I would have been labeled a rude, loud, mouthy woman.

Hellz yeah I am. And proud of it.

But here’s another question: are we really being polite by enabling this sort of conversational blowhardedness? No one enjoys it except for the speaker. But by smiling and nodding and laughing when expected we encourage it, creating a bigger monster.

Nice is different than good, my friends. I think it’s time we tried being good girls instead of nice ones.

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