The Totally F*cked Worldview So Many Women Have

“Just 2 please,” I say to the hostess with that soft smile you do with your mouth and eyes at the same time. Because, if you don’t- if you say things with a deadpanned, straight-faced, no emotion but neutrality- that’s rude. Obviously. 

A young boy grabs 2 menus and 2 sets of silverware. “You can follow me,” he says to us over his shoulder as he turns to weave through the tables of other patrons, leading us to our own. He stops in front of a 4-top in the corner, opens his body to us as he gestures with his rear hand to the table. “Here you go,” he says with his show-and-tell-hand. 

The table is very clearly uncleared from the diners before us. Or… is it? I immediately, instinctively, begin to gaslight myself. Maybe that’s just your perception I say in my head, maybe you’re wrong. But there are unfolded napkins, half-drunk water cups, and crumbs strewn about. I am pretty sure the table is dirty, but my Maybe-the-Problem-Is-You mind still questions the scene. 

I put back on my soft “eyes-and-mouth-at-the-same-time” smile and I said, “thank you,” to the boy who led us to the dirty table. I’m fully prepared to sit here. What’s the other option? Speak up? Say what I’m thinking? That I think this table hasn’t been cleaned yet? Something inside of me tells me that’s not “polite”. That would be “awkward”. I “shouldn’t” say that. So I don’t. 

In the half-second in which all of this is occurring in my brain, the boy notices the state of the table and confirms-much to his horror- what I suspected to be true. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” he says. “This is the wrong table! I’m sorry this one still needs to be cleaned.” 

He leads us to another table. This one: pristine. 

We unfold our menus, and though I am looking at pictures of quesadillas and glamor-shot-posted margaritas, I am thinking about how I legitimately almost just sat at a dirty table because I wanted to be “polite”. Because I didn’t want to make that boy feel bad. Because I didn’t want to make a fuss. I am thinking about how, apparently, abiding by this completely self-fabricated definition of “politeness” is more important to me than vocally advocating for an experience I want to have. Which is, in this case, just the experience of eating at a clean table. 

Sh*t. How far does this sickness go? 

Pretty far, actually, thanks for asking. Just yesterday, I got mud on my shoe during a walk but didn’t want to stomp and scrape it off “in front of people” because “that’s obnoxious”. One time, I got a massage at a place where the intake form asked you to select your music preferences. I selected my choice, then the masseuse asked if they could change it. I said yes. I didn’t want to make them feel bad. On more occasions than I can count, I have passed up aisles in TJ Maxx, Target, Marshalls– because there are already people down there. I’ll just come back. I don’t want to crowd them. I have altered entire workouts in the gym so as not to “disturb” someone else. I have sent more “I can make either one work!” texts instead of expressing my true preference because I believe it’s “better” to defer to others. A sign I am “polite”, “nice”, “easy to work with”. For God’s sake, I have held my pee during large group meals until it hurts out of a desperation to avoid disrupting the straight, smooth, static line of the entire experience. 

I have been doing this for years. (Not holding my pee, specifically, bu, you know, worshiping at the fake altar of “Politeness”.) Questionably, my whole life? Acting as if I am a guest everything I go. As if everyone, everywhere is doing me a favor. Hence the dozens of “thank yous”, the overly-punctuated emails, the physical-bristling of my body, tightness in my throat, that happens when I have no choice but to directly state my preference– a sin in the Church of Politeness! I am so concerned with making sure you have a positive opinion of me, of making sure you don’t feel weird, of making sure you are comfortable, that, without question, I will put as secondary my own opinion of myself. I will feel weird instead. I will sacrifice my comfort for yours. Of course. This is “polite” after all, right? 

I see how royally f*cked this perspective is. And to put it in writing makes it sound so silly that it seems like it can’t be real. And yet I know dozens of women will know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m working on digging up where this comes from and how to burn the roots so that it does not continue to grow. I’m working on both rewriting my definition of “polite”, as well as removing it from the almighty altar I’ve placed it on and replacing it with, maybe, authenticity? Joy? Truth? How would each of these interactions be different if instead my goal was to be as true and joyful as possible, instead of as “polite” as possible? I’m working on it.