I’m fifty-one today. I spent about 49 of those 51 years apologizing for being myself; and then apologizing for the two years of not apologizing. I’m not just sick of apologizing. That happened long ago and still the apologies. I’m tired of apologizing.

Unless I actually hurt someone. That’s another category of apology. I’m talking about apologies for just being me.

I bitch, I moan, I make funny faces, I’m awkward as hell in social situations especially if I’m getting to know you better, I forget I’m not in my 30s, I will talk your ear off about what I’m researching, I’m bougie and boring and deeply uncool but not so uncool that I got back around to being cool, I put up with a lot of shit until I snap (so jump back), I’m a dilettante, I will inadvertently embarrass myself or you in public at some point in time by just being me.

I just cannot apologize for that anymore. I’m tired of it. There is too much other shit to worry about and make up for — things that are serious and require real apologies and reparations — that doesn’t have anything to do with the silliness of my personality. There is too much about me that I like (and apologize for liking) that I want to cultivate and enjoy.

Let the awesome Mavis Staples tell it for me, about herself (details are obviously quite different).

This verse especially resonates with me:

Makes no difference now y’all
How you may feel
I’ve done reached the point
Where I wanna be real
I’m tired of living living in disguise
I like the things about me
I like the things about me
I like the things about me
I like the things about me that I once despised

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.