“But what do you really think of me?”

I tend to only ask that when I am inebriated, otherwise I wouldn’t be that stupid. (One would think, anyways.)

Imagine though, if you could actually have an entire minute to tell someone what you really thought of them, without consequences. No jaw-dropping, no tears, hurt feelings or broken hearts. Just 60 seconds of total honesty, the unadulterated truth.

Could you do it?

It could be a good thing if you knew for certain that the other person thought you were the bee’s knee’s. Then this exercise could actually be used to accentuate the relationship and bond instead of ripping it asunder, like a lion with its prey.

(I got a B in my 10th grade creative writing class.)

I decided to woman-up and ask someone what they really thought of me, no bullshit or fluff.

I asked my daughter.

We interrupt this post for an important message from the makers of Summer’s Eve….
We interrupt this post for an important message from the makers of Summer’s Eve….

Baby B: I’ve got nothing.

Me: Really?

Baby B: Yep. You know I’m not good at all that emotional stuff.

Me: I know, but this gives you a chance to tell me what you don’t like about me.

Baby B: I’ve got nothing.

She smiled, and I smiled back at her. (My tired heart sighed a bit.)

Me: Fine, I’ll ask the dog.

Maggie looked up at me from where she lay on the floor, and licked my toe. (She has a strong stomach.)

I obviously wasn’t getting anywhere with those two, and there was no one else to ask at the time, so I gave up. I could have hunted someone down on Facebook to play along, but most people are busy on a Saturday.

Then I got to thinking, perhaps I didn’t want to hear the truth, after all. Let’s face it, I’m far from perfect and have many flaws, both internally and externally (see toe reference above.) No matter how much you like a person, you can usually find a stray irksome trait lurking somewhere, and I am no exception.

For example, I am kind of a space cadet these days. I put the sugar in the fridge (to the delight of my daughter,) and said the word nymphomaniac instead of hypochondriac to my mother. It gave her a great chuckle, and was deemed an instant classic.

I could go on, but it would take me a month of Sundays. (I’ve always wanted to say that.)

I would like to think that the majority of people who really know me quite well are aware of my shortcomings, and my meds are kickin’ in.

I know not all are comfortable with emotional outpouring, like my daughter. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel things deeply, she just has a hard time verbalizing it. For me, it’s easier to type it, or write it, which is why I have a blog.


My daughter is an ultra sensitive, just like I am. Although she may not show it often enough for my liking, she loves me. I hug her, because that’s how I am. She pushes me away, because that’s the way she is. She laughs when she does it, and tells me to go away.

The truth? It’s all a sham.