Sixty is a Myth

At the end of our senior year in high school, our class president signed my yearbook. He started his note with, “you are an enigma.”

I may have had to look the word up. It certainly didn’t sound like a compliment.

At some point, I settled into it. I AM an enigma. And I am actually pretty proud of it.

In high school, people could not figure me out. I was not a joiner. I did well academically, but I wasn’t part of the brainy group. I played all sports, but I wasn’t part of the jock group either. I love nerds, but, nope, wasn’t part of that group either. I was more of an independent agent. I had friends in all cliques. But when it came down to who I wanted to spend the most time with, it was always my family.

At times, I feel like a walking contradiction.

I have never been one who particularly wants or needs to stand out in a crowd. When I was a teenager, the LAST thing I wanted to do was stand out – I desperately wanted to blend in. It’s a bit of a challenge to not stand out when you are six feet tall. Especially if you are a young teenage girl.

At fifty-nine, I no longer need to blend in.

On the surface, I probably look fairly conventional. My fashion choices and presentation are pretty traditional. My Ivy League education and legal career have led many people to assume I am a certain way.

Those same people would probably call me an enigma if they knew I have tattoos.

When involved in the management of my law firm, we were asked to take the Myers Briggs test. My result was ESFJ: E 1, S 13, F 41, J 37. I distinctly remember the moderator looking at my scores, learning that I was an attorney, and expressing disbelief.

Apparently, lawyers weren’t supposed to have quite that much F.

There it was again.

Enigma.

In addition to practicing law, I opened a Great Harvest Bread Company in Savannah, Georgia. I have always been known as a kind person. But it was when I owned the bread company that I learned that I have an RBF. (I had to look that up too.) On days when I was in the bakery, I would have my employees often approach me in the afternoon and “suggest” that I go to the back part of the bakery as my RBF was coming on strong.

Perhaps being an enigma is, very simply, not being who people assume you are.

It took me a long time to understand that.

I have no idea what my class president meant when he wrote those words in my yearbook more than forty years ago. Maybe he couldn’t figure out where I fit. Maybe I didn’t fit anywhere in particular.

At seventeen, that bothered me.

At fifty-nine, I like it.