The scene unfolds in a library on the outskirts of Melbourne. I'm engaged in a "conversation" with a librarian, a carefully orchestrated event designed to promote my new book. I'm grateful for the opportunity, appreciating the chance to connect with librarians, talk about my work, and, let's be honest, talk about myself. The audience, including friends, is attentive and supportive.
Libraries are sanctuaries, havens for people of all ages and backgrounds. I love them for their atmosphere of quiet contemplation and the shared love of reading. This particular library, with its large windows overlooking a lake, provides a welcoming space. The audience includes two older men. One listens attentively, while the other remains at the back, seemingly uninterested.
At the end of the "conversation," after a few questions, the older man raises his hand. He launches into a lengthy story about his life, completely unrelated to my book. I let him speak, understanding the need to share one's own experiences. After a few minutes, I offer a brief comment, acknowledging the power of the past.
Following the event, there's a signing line. The two men are still present. The older man lingers nearby, as if we're old friends, while the other cuts in line. When he reaches the front, he shares a story about himself before leaving without purchasing a book.
As I'm leaving, chatting with the librarian, the older man approaches and asks for a photo. I've had my photo taken numerous times recently, and I'm not thrilled with the way I look. I'm in my late 50s and haven't fully accepted the changes in my appearance.
I decline the photo, pointing to a picture of me on the screen. As I turn away, he comments that I looked better with long hair. Without thinking, I turn back, give him the finger, and tell him he can't speak to women like that. The librarian is visibly upset, and my publicist intervenes, ushering me away.
Reflecting on the incident, I realize that flipping the bird wasn't something I'd planned to do. It felt like a violation, a rupture. I've tolerated comments on my appearance and listened to countless self-centered monologues. Some men, subconsciously, need to remind themselves of their existence by talking about themselves. I've learned to handle these situations, but I've never resorted to a rude gesture.
do you think I'm not looking at you? Do you think I didn’t notice that you looked like a praying mantis, frail and savage, wobbling away in the corner of my vision, waiting to do something nasty? You’re old too, dickhead. And you probably looked better when you had all your hair.
The rupture occurred because the underlying self-doubt, particularly about my appearance, is my safe space. I guard it carefully, using words to maintain control. Giving him the finger made me feel shaky and hurt, but I don't regret it. I simply dislike losing my composure, because it's my own.
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