When I’m alone sometimes, (let’s be honest. Often) I will sing to myself. Loudly. Sometimes badly.
I know a lot of songs (one side effect of a misspent youth).
I can fake a lot more.
Yes, it’s weird. But it’s also one of the few times I can say with certainty that I’m being authentically me. That’s not to say that I’m a two-faced, people-pleasing chameleon. I’m not sure what I am, but I’m not that.
I would say first that I’m a performer. Perhaps a social scientist.You might just as equally say that I am so multi-faceted that it would take you a multitude of visits in a multitude of situations to even begin to know a fraction of what I am.
So you know how I know I’m being authentic? I do it when I’m alone, without any premeditation, and I actually feel disappointed and vaguely awkward when someone comes in and I feel I have to stop. You see, somewhere along the lines I learned that my “noise” wasn’t as pleasureable for others to listen to.
There aren’t very many things that I do just for myself like that.
I enjoy gardening, but I like the admiration of fellow enthusiasts even more.
I love to write, but writing is generally meant for the consumption of others, and as such intrisically tied to the value they get from it.
I like to be organized and on top of things, but I especially enjoy being the person people turn to for leadership.
I’m starting to look pretty “extrinsically motivated” right?
What do I do for me, and only for me? My intrinsic motivation is nearly always overshadowed by the pats on the back I crave.
Still, I console myself. (self-rationalization?) If I were the figurative last woman on earth, I would still write, still garden, still be organized. (If I were literally the last woman on earth, these things probably wouldn’t hold the same importance for me)