Death by first impression πŸ₯€Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ 

This is for the brave few who read the bulk of the below newsletter: I’m fine now!!!

Topics covered this month: uhhhh me being a freak apparently???

Have you ever fantasized about making a perfect first impression? Like moving to a new city or starting a new job? You walk through the door as the most vibrant, sensational version of yourself imaginable. People adore you. They can’t get enough! Your wit, your insight, your conversational cadence, your inimitable essence is on point and beloved.

Ok, the opposite of that happened to me when I started a new job a few weeks ago, so let’s explore that.

A Person Who Loses

I am a loser. At my new job, I am squarely on the outside of the in-circle. I arrive at 9 AM, sit down at my desk, and the isolation begins. I listen to laughter, and what I assume are jokes, to questions and banter. I see side conversations and check-ins, build-ups to a punchline, and the roaring repercussions of a flawless landing, but I remain a freakish spectatorβ€”silent, curious, repulsive. 

To be in on the joke, you have to speak the language. In this instance, I mean that both literally and poetically. I do not understand what anyone around me is saying because I don’t speak Dutch, and I do not have the cultural or social fluency to bridge the gap the language barrier creates. It’s a shame because I love words. I love language, I love English. I love what humor looks like in other tongues. I love learning new languages and how it feels to gain access to a new community. I love using words to reveal myself and get comfortable, but I cannot do that hereβ€”not when I am trapped on the outside. Not as a mono-lingual loser, rendered mute and alien.

When I experience life as a loser, I can’t help but feel small. I feel young, maybe 12 years old. I feel transparent and vulnerable. I feel easily ignored, and I begin to feel myself responding to the accumulation of treatment and projection. When I do speak, it all comes out too quickly. I’m so overeager for a reason to talk, I use up all the space and don’t adjust the volume and choose the wrong words. I waste the moment. And who knows when another one will come along. 

For the first week, I pretend it’s not happening. I use words like β€œparanoid,” and β€œtoo soon to tell,” when I replay interactions and feel the thunderous clap of loserness in my skull. One day, I put my best foot forward and try hard to combat my status. I go over the top with chit-chat. I bring in cookies. I dole out praise and specific, personal inquiries meant to drum up a rapport. It goes ok. 

During the second week, I feel a resignation of circumstance heavy in the air. This is who I am, here. It’s not very funβ€”in fact, I feel depressed and slightly illβ€”but I am more at home with the idea of staying a loser. It’s only at work, and I only work three days a week, so that’s just a fraction of my life when I have to be one. If I learn Dutch down the line, maybe I’ll try again, start anew, and reinvent myself. I look into €6k immersion courses. There’s one that’s only five days long, so that would be efficient. I’m not certain what my motivation would be for spending the money and taking the course, but it seems risky if the impetus is solely to rid myself of a loser label, instead of earnest self-investment or cultural assimilation. It seems irrational and manic. It seems patheticβ€”ironically one of the few Dutch words I know (zielig). 

It’s during this second week when I confess to Michael, β€œI am a loser.” I use that word, and it makes it feel more real but less lonely. Michael says it sounds like high schoolβ€”the lunchroom panic of finding a seat, the ignoring, the staresβ€”but he says it in a way that makes me feel understood, so I start crying. Odette, who is 3-and-a-half, has only seen me cry about my dad dying or when her sister Ida was hospitalized. She tells me to stop and asks verbatim, β€œWhat is that dripping” from my eyes. That comment does indeed make me stop crying. 

What’s the lesson in this experience for my children? On the spectrum of a single teachable moment, I am trending toward a negative number. Crying in front of my daughter because I feel like a loser..? It’s giving stop. It’s giving say somethingβ€”anythingβ€”about how important inner self-worth is. It’s giving talk about power in vulnerability. It’s giving explain what tears are.

I look up the literal meaning of the word loser: a person who loses. Ok, what have I lost? Sense of self, sense of purpose, sense of reality. I arrive at the office, and I lose all sense of time. It ticks by at a rate I can only suss out is slow motion to the nth degree. I text Michael, β€œHow is time moving this slowly,” 3-9 times a day. And yet, not enough total time has passed to know for sure if I will stay a loser. What is the statute of limitations on a first impression? If I transform into a normal who fits in, does the memory of the first few weeks die off? In answer, Ida opens a book at dinner, points directly at a clown, makes eye contact, and says sweetly, β€œMamma.”

If patience were currency, I would be destitute. In general, but especially as a loser. It’s unbearable to face an 8-hour workday knowing there’s nothing waiting for you but silence and whatever the opposite of bonding is. But time passes no matter how clownish I feel at work, and at the end of another week, there’s a change in the air. Gentle signals that make me question if the main thing I’ve lost is remembering I’m not a loser at all.

A colleague passes me on the stairs and says I remind him of Sabrina Carpenter, a compliment so aligned with my taste I grin like I’m accepting a Grammy. I’m invited for coffee, a post-work round of padel. People share their funny stories with me, graciously, in English. I start recognizing common Dutch phrases. Another colleague asks if I want to share a room during an upcoming company trip. Suddenly, an empty chair exists in the packed circle I imagined was there. A spot for an outsider? An invitation that begins to laser off the label I tattooed on myself. A possible moral of the story I can bring home to my daughters: a person who loses themself, is the biggest loser of all.

Proof of life after losing

Less vain proof

Top Reason I Miss My Friend Julia Right Now:

Extreme topic change, but let me tell you an equally relevant, much quicker tale. 2-and-a-half years ago, I was thrifting with Julia when I stumbled upon a beautiful, all-black, semi-sheer 100% silk shirt. Julia identified the brand as a rare find and I purchased said shirt.

Fast-forward to now, this is my favorite shirt of all time. Nay, favorite possession. I have searched everywhere for a backup of this particular, now-defunct 90s brand, pure silk base layer shirt, and come up short.

Last Friday, VALENTINE’S DAY no less, Julia texted me that she had done the impossible. Behold, a brand new, exact copy of my most prized long-sleeve treasure. A person who loses?! Talk about a person who gains!!!! (nightmare final sentence to this story).

Next time I plan on writing about my radical transformationβ€”inspired by the following:
 

Thank you for reading xoxo

Aalsmersweg 119
Amsterdam 1059AH
Netherlands

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