There are few things more humbling than realizing the embarrassing thing you have been replaying for six years probably didn't make it into anyone else's afternoon.
You know the thing.
You said something weird at dinner.
You waved back at someone who wasn't waving at you.
You walked into a room feeling wildly overdressed.
Or worse, underdressed.
You sent the text and immediately wished there were a small emergency button somewhere that could retrieve it from the universe.
You told a joke that didn't land.
You stumbled over your words during a meeting and spent the drive home reconstructing the entire conversation like investigators were going to need the footage.
And every once in a while, usually at 11:47 p.m. when you're trying to sleep, your brain pulls it from the archives.
Remember this?
Unfortunately, yes.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
How much of our lives are we editing for an audience that isn't actually watching?
The Imaginary Audience
We think about ourselves constantly.
Which makes sense.
We're there for all of it.
We know when our hair isn't cooperating.
We know we gained five pounds.
We know the presentation wasn't our best.
We know we wore these pants last Thursday.
We know the photo took seventeen attempts.
We know we have absolutely no idea what we're doing.
And because these things feel enormous from inside our own heads, we assume they're equally visible to everyone else.
Surely everyone noticed.
They noticed the stain.
They noticed the nervousness.
They noticed we didn't know anyone at the party.
They noticed we went back for another piece of cake.
They noticed the awkward pause.
They noticed we haven't posted anything lately.
They noticed.
Except...
Did they?
Because everyone else was probably busy wondering whether we noticed them.
Everyone Is the Main Character Somewhere
There is something wonderfully inconvenient about remembering that every person we encounter has an entire life happening that has almost nothing to do with us.
The person at dinner who seemed distracted?
Maybe they weren't bored with our story.
Maybe they were wondering if they left the garage door open.
The friend who took three days to respond?
Maybe they aren't secretly angry.
Maybe they saw the message while standing in line at Target, thought I'll answer that later, and then accidentally lived seventy-two additional hours.
The coworker who walked past without saying hello?
Maybe they're not making a statement.
Maybe they desperately need to pee.
We assign meaning to everything because we're standing at the center of our own story.
But they're standing at the center of theirs.
And suddenly, an enormous amount of social anxiety starts looking like several people simultaneously worrying about themselves in the same room.
The Outfit Nobody Remembers
Think about the last party you attended.
What was everyone wearing?
Exactly.
Maybe you remember one person's outfit.
Maybe.
And yet before going, there's a good chance you stood in front of your closet thinking:
Is this too much?
Is this not enough?
Did I wear this last time?
Does this look weird?
Are people dressing up?
Should I change?
Then you changed.
Then changed back.
Then arrived and discovered everyone else had apparently spent their own twenty minutes conducting the exact same private investigation.
We spend so much time trying to control how we're perceived by people who are mostly trying to control how they're perceived.
It's almost romantic.
We're all insecure together.
Social Media Has Not Helped
Of course, there was probably a time when you could embarrass yourself and eventually escape it.
Now we have analytics.
Views.
Likes.
Followers.
Read receipts.
Story viewers.
We can literally measure how many people looked at something we did.
Which sounds like useful information until you realize humans were probably never meant to know that 417 people watched them make pasta.
Suddenly we're not simply living.
We're publishing.
Should I post this?
Is this embarrassing?
Does this look desperate?
Is this too much?
Will people think I'm showing off?
Will people think I'm boring?
And perhaps the strangest question of all:
What will people think?
People?
Which people?
Your third-grade teacher?
Someone you worked with in 2018?
A person you met once at a wedding?
That one account you don't even remember following?
We've somehow assembled a fictional board of directors and given them voting rights over our personalities.
The Freedom of Being Slightly Embarrassing
There is an enormous amount of freedom waiting on the other side of accepting that occasionally, someone might think you're weird.
Wear the thing.
Post the picture.
Ask the question.
Go somewhere alone.
Say hello first.
Dance badly.
Start something you're not immediately good at.
Invite people over before your house is perfect.
Order dessert when nobody else does.
Be enthusiastic.
Being enthusiastic might actually be the big one.
At some point, many of us learned that caring too much was embarrassing.
Trying was embarrassing.
Being excited was embarrassing.
Admitting you really wanted something was practically unbearable.
So we learned to perform a kind of casual indifference.
Whatever.
We'll see.
It's not that serious.
Meanwhile, some of the most interesting people are simply the ones who stopped pretending they didn't care.
Someone Might Judge You
They might.
This is the slightly annoying part.
Someone might think your outfit is ridiculous.
Someone might find your personality annoying.
Someone might roll their eyes at something you post.
Someone might think you're trying too hard.
Someone might misunderstand you completely.
And then?
They'll probably make dinner.
They'll answer a text.
They'll wonder whether they should wash their hair tonight.
They'll worry about something they said earlier.
They'll go to bed.
Because even when people are thinking about us, they're usually not thinking about us for very long.
We are supporting characters in thousands of other people's lives.
Some of us barely have dialogue.
Imagine What We Could Do With All That Time
Think about how much energy goes into managing other people's hypothetical opinions.
The outfits we didn't wear.
The things we didn't say.
The invitations we didn't send.
The questions we didn't ask.
The photos we didn't post.
The projects we didn't start.
The rooms we tried to disappear inside.
All because someone might think something.
And the cruelest part?
They might not think anything at all.
Maybe we've spent years trying to avoid embarrassment when embarrassment was never the real danger.
Maybe the real danger was becoming so concerned with looking foolish that we stopped doing anything interesting.
Maybe Nobody Is Thinking About You That Much
This could sound depressing.
I think it's wonderful.
Nobody is keeping a detailed record of your awkward moments.
Nobody remembers every outfit.
Nobody is conducting a quarterly review of your personality.
Nobody is lying awake analyzing that slightly strange thing you said at brunch.
They're too busy remembering the slightly strange thing they said.
And maybe that's one of the great permissions of adulthood.
We don't have to be perfectly perceived.
We don't even have to be understood by everyone.
We just have to live with the fact that occasionally we'll be awkward, overdressed, too enthusiastic, wrong, embarrassing or completely misunderstood.
Because the people we're so worried about impressing?
They're probably wondering what we think of them.
And maybe that's the funniest part.
We've all been performing for each other, and half the audience wasn't even watching.
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