When They Call You Ditzy
Defining yourself.
A few years ago, I attend the Poinsettia Ball, which is THE main social event in our community. I help set up the Friday before the event, during which time I learn how to make sure all the flatware is aligned EXACTLY the right way. A terribly important skill for being posh, apparently.
It is actually kind of fun … the setting up part.
But, then, at the actual ball, this man comes up to me, and he’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t remember who he is. He’s got a red tie on. He’s a bit stooped over. But I smile anyway when he grabs my hand. I usually get hugged upon greeting instead of a handshake, so I figure it’s okay that I don’t know who he is right away. A handshake means we aren’t on hugging terms.
And he goes to me, “Hi, Carrie. Are you still –zy?”
I lean forward, although trying not to lean too far forward because of the whole breasts-in-gown thing, and I say, “Am I still busy? Yeah, I guess so.”
“No. Are you still –zy?”
He’s shaking his head at me like it’s unbelievable that I’m not taking in what he’s putting down.
I back up, but he’s still clutching my hand so I can’t get free. People swarm around us, getting drinks, admiring each other. They are all loud talkers and it’s not easy to hear.
“Busy?” I ask.
“NO!” he yells. “Ditzy!”
“Ditzy? Am I still ditzy?” I have finally evacuated my hand. What do I say? I have no idea. And because I just want to get away, I blurt, “Um. I guess so?”
Sigh.
I am immediately angry at myself for this answer, for being so shocked and surprised that I just let this random red-tie-wearing man define me.
Things like this always shock me. I had NO IDEA anyone perceived me as ditzy. Can newspaper editors (which is what I am then) be ditzy? Can former city councilors?
It’s amazing how many different perceptions people can have of you and how many different perceptions you can have of yourself.
Really.
Every single person we run into has a slightly (or wildly) different perception of who we are, and we really can’t control that. Some people need us to be heroes, to be gurus, to be villains, to be chill, to be ditzy, to be stereotypes, apparently? But even in slightly less broad terms, we are perceived by others in ways that we do not always perceive ourselves.
A little after the poinsettia ball ditzy incident, a reporter was interviewing me for an article and she said, “You’re very Annie Hall. Very Diane Keaton energy.”
And again, I brilliantly said, “What?”
“You’re just very . . . ” And she flailed her hands up in her air above her head like Kermit the Frog and made big eyes.
Annie Hall is anxious and flighty and giggling and nervous and . . . playful? I couldn’t be like that, could I?
“Do you mean manic pixie dream girl?” I suggested.
“I don’t know what that is,” she said, leaning backward, pen tapping against her cheek, “but that sounds just about right.”
So, back at the ball, after running away from HE WHO CALLS ME DITZY, I bump into a past teacher of the year, marathon runner and told him the story. He actually gets angry on my behalf, which is SOOOO nice and says, “Carrie, do you want me to take him outside?”
“No,” I tell him. “I just want to know if I’m ditzy.”
“You are not ditzy,” he tells me.
“You swear?”
“Swear.”
Thank God for teachers of the year.
But there are two things that make me come back to this story as both a writer and a woman.
As writers, we need to remember that not everyone always sees our character the same way – defines them the same way. And some people who define them are terribly wrong. But that’s a good thing to remember when trying to give our characters depth and layers. Characters need foils for readers to understand who they are. Characters also need actions to define who they are, not just dialogue and internal thought.
As a woman, I keep thinking to myself, “WTF?” Did I seriously let some random guy tell me I’m ditzy and agree? Or a reporter tell me I’m flighty like Annie Hall? And then the immediate person I talked to after the first incident was another man? Yes, second man was awesome. But why was I even so worried about how they defined me? What they thought of me? Why didn’t I go ask a woman instead?
But more importantly, why did I ask anyone at all? The only person who should get to define you is you. I say that to people all the time. Why couldn’t I have said that to me? Why didn’t I think, the only person who gets to define me is me?
Because it’s true. The only person who gets to define you, the only definition and truth that matters to you? Should be yours. Define yourself well, okay? And be kind to yourself, too. And maybe take a step back from defining other people in ways that fit your narrative more than fits their own.
Don’t be that man at the ball.
Don’t be that reporter in the coffee shop.
Be kind. Live happy.
Ohhh this resonates so much. (I spent many years in middle school and high school in a friends group that included someone who was ALWAYS calling me a "ditz" or "ditzy" even though I had high grades, etc., and it seriously impacted my own self-definitions.) Alll the solidarity!