Authenticity

Creepy Stroller Stage Prop

Creepy Stroller Stage Prop

The red-headed drag queen with the never-ending legs, gold glitter eyeshadow and pointy stilettos kept appearing on stage with a khaki-colored baby stroller from the 50s. 


Just like that creepy Rosemary’s Baby stroller with the devil’s baby inside. 


What the hell was that stroller doing there all of the time? 


Were the songs all about babies? Collateral from previous relationships? Reflections on responsibility and independence? The pursuit of liberty? Growth and transformation?


I had no idea. 


All of the songs performed that night were by an old-school French composer named Jean-Jacques Goldman that none of us American expats in my entourage had ever heard of. (side note: a friend chose the campy drag show as a fun offbeat activity for a birthday celebration, and it was a BLAST!). 


When the stroller appeared on stage for the third time, my friend Ajiri leaned over and whispered the exact question that was running through my mind for the last 45 minutes: “What’s the deal with the stroller?”

Death to perfection and the rise of the real

Death to perfection and the rise of the real

When I started learning about values I discovered “authenticity” was a bad mama jama value for me. 

When I meet someone I don’t want the glossy, airbrushed, everything is “GREAT!” version of life, I want it real and raw. I want the cracks in the pavement. The frays around the edges. 
 

THE MOMENT SOMEONE DROPS THE MASK AND LET’S YOU IN — THERE’S NOTHING ELSE LIKE IT. 


Knowing that they trust you with their fears, doubts, or fantasies (of wanting to slowly roll out of a moving car to escape kids screaming in the back, for example). That’s the real deal. That’s connection. That’s the juicy stuff that makes life worth living. 
 

Everything else is like a canned laugh track from an 80s sitcoms. You can sniff that fake nonsense from a mile away but after a while you become totally numb to it.