Verify You Are Human

What I did learn that day, though, was a form of anxious self-criticism that still follows me to this day. It seems like every time I lay out an article of clothing to wear, I ask myself—sometimes consciously, oftentimes not—“What smartass comment would Jay make about this?” And if I feel like my imaginary Jay might have a point, I don’t wear that thing.

But the thing is, Jay wasn’t any kind of authority. He was just a kid, same as me, but with a penchant for turning simple observations into disparaging remarks. Jay was an asshole, and he is a person I haven’t seen or spoken to in at least 22 years. I don’t know why I still let his words, and more importantly his views, influence my behavior. I couldn’t tell you how many other Jay-like people have planted similar seeds of neuroticism and self-censorship in my head.

One of my earliest CD purchases in middle school was Monsters of Rap.¹ I must've listened to the first disk a hundred times. I was particularly captivated by Sir Mix-A-Lot's Baby Got Back.²

I listened to it so much that I memorized all the lyrics. And anytime I heard that song, it was a personal challenge to try and match Mix word-for-word.

At a stag dance in high school, the DJ dropped Baby Got Back, and I got so happy. I started rapping along with the track while busting my best moves.

Halfway through the song, a friend of mine (let's call him Greyson) looked at me and said, "dude, stop rapping. Nobody cares that you know the words, it's just annoying."

Now that I'm a dad, I catch myself occasionally acting the same way as Greyson and Jay, policing the joy that's emanating from my kids because of whatever big feelings I'm feeling.

Those are the moments I most often wish I could take back, and the first I go back and repair the next morning.

Sitting here in my late 30s, I now realize it's my job to decide what external sources of validation I want to bake into my own inner monologue.

It's also my job as a parent to help my kids come to the same realization.