On Being Too Sensitive: A Water Aerobics Follow-up Post

{Alternate title: Aquabitches}

I was dreading going to water aerobics this morning, likely because of my blogpost from last Saturday. You know how when you told your mom how great your friends were and how much they all liked you, and how the day after that you were a little afraid to see them all, afraid they secretly thought you smelled bad?

It felt like that this morning. I'd joyfully blogged, and now it would never live up to that again.

I got there late, and the water was crowded, and I felt awkward. At one point we had to jog to one end of the pool, then jog back, so I took this opportunity to position myself a little deeper in, since it's hard to do the moves in shallower water. I thought I fit fine, but soon two women near me looked at each other over my head, and I could somehow tell they found me irritating.

I racked my brain for why: was I too eager, too happy to be there, too fat? Should I just settle down and splash less? Was I too splashy? And the other part of me was thinking, too splashy? Come on. If you didn't want to get your hair wet, you should have brought a pink polka-dotted shower cap like that lady in the back row.

I tried to be confident and chill and assume I'd misunderstood their glance, but then one of the ladies, who was sporting sinister-looking black nails, said, "Umm, could you please move over?"She said this rudely, like I'd been standing in her personal space for days, instead of for thirty seconds. She said like I'd made her morning, giving her something to be very upset about.

And I said, sure, sorry, and also, "You have plenty of room on the other side of you, too. You could move over." I said this as nicely as I could, but it seemed important to stand up for myself, to say something assertive.

She said, "Yes, but this is where I was. This is my spot."

I was tempted to argue further, but I knew that I only wanted to argue because I felt very small and stupid and sad, because what she'd said had arrived like an explosion in my chest, and I knew arguing further wouldn't take that feeling away.

There are those close to me, those who love me, who say I'm too sensitive, and they're right, of course. What this woman said was not at all a big deal.

But in a way I don't know what that means--too sensitive. What does the word "too" mean here, exactly? Because if her words made me feel small and stupid and sad, if they arrived in my chest like an explosion, if I was tempted to weep and never return to the gym, what exactly could I do about that? My emotion was real and unruly, and my gym-courage is still young and tenuous, and I handled it the best I could, in the way I've learned over the last 30+ years of being "too sensitive": I stayed. I prayed silently that my feelings would get more manageable. And by the time I left, I felt fine. I even looked for her, wanting to apologize again, make peace, and tell her it was only my second time, and I was still learning the ropes. I wanted to ask her name, so I could nod and say hello the next time I came to class.

I'm particularly interested in all of this because of Henrietta, of course, because it's clear, even now, that she's my kid in this regard. While her cousin who's the same age seems to glide through life as easy-tempered as anything, things break Henrietta's heart all day long. She doesn't even speak English yet, and already we're breaking her heart all over the place.

And what will I tell her? Will I tell her she's too sensitive?

I don't think I will. I don't think I can, knowing what I know about feeling that way. How can I tell her that the way the offense explodes in her and threatens to ruin her day is not the way she should feel? That doesn't seem a useful way to approach.

She's going to run into aquabitches all her life, I assume. Women with long black nails, women who like confrontation, who live to make you feel a little smaller so they can feel a little bigger. And I want to teach a different way.

There's an elementary school around here with a big sparkling reminder painted on the wall near the entrance: "Be Kind" it says, and I want to tell her that. That there's too little kindness, too much that feels threatening, that all of our hearts are breaking and we all worry we're too splashy and even the ones who break us are worried they smell bad. And all we can really do is pray, extend our hand and say, "I'm Henrietta; sorry I crowded you."

And if none of that works, we find another class. We try yoga. We try spin. We get on the treadmill and we run very fast.