Self-conscious

Sometimes I regret not taking pictures. Sometimes I wonder about the regret. Yesterday I went to Value Village, dropping off the results of a de-cluttering in the basement and stopping in the store, just to look. “I should take a picture” I thought, of things I saw that I liked but would not buy… Dainty earrings, intriguing necklaces, a gold picture frame, mugs from Niagara Falls. But I thought “no, just enjoy the experience of looking and wandering…” and I didn’t take out my phone. Pictures would have been more clutter. They would have been a different form of possession, a thing that said “look at me, looking at what I saw”. I felt self-conscious.

I found a plaid skirt and two merino-wool sweaters. At the checkout, the cashier had chipped black nail polish and a gold ring for each finger of his right hand. I often debate with myself whether or not I should voice my thoughts and decided to compliment the wearer’s rings. They clenched their hand into fists so I could see the rings better and I said they formed a nice collection. They smiled. Today, I still picture the dainty earrings, the picture frame, the gold rings. I liked them even better when shown me, when their wearer smiled.

I think self-consciousness too often holds me back. I was at Value Village for a change of scenery, to be reminded, as Liang writes, to “be generous to the strange, be open to difference, cross-pollinate freely” (via Brain Pickings.) It is like what Marilla says to Anne when the latter is fretting about leaving a good impression as a guest to tea: “The trouble with you, Anne, is that you’re thinking too much about yourself. You should just think of Mrs. Allan and what would be nicest and most agreeable for her.” (Anne of Green Gables, p. 213)

Next time, I’ll take pictures.