Generally speaking, people aren’t keen to face up to their own contradictions.
If you admit to your own, it opens up the possibility that, at times, you could be a wee bit of a hypocrite. If you consider the contradictions of others, it makes them more difficult to understand. It’s much easier to think of them, and ourselves, as one thing: a fixed quantity. And when a person demonstrates themselves to be otherwise, we tend to see this as a moral failing.
Depending on the circumstances, of course, it can be a moral failing. If you loudly agonise about climate change but own shares in an oil company, that is reprehensible. But if you are very eco-conscious and admit that you fantasise about owning a gas-guzzling SUV, that is just being human. (Don’t buy one though.)
I hate a fuss. Specifically, any sort of fuss aimed at me. It makes me anxious and irritable; it knocks me out of alignment in a way I find almost physically painful. I keep my birthdays extremely low-key. I always have. I didn’t have a 21st birthday party because I didn’t want one. I was talked into a 40th party and it was skin-crawling torture.
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‘When the cinema lights came up, we all hugged, and I wondered why, on this day, the magic worked for me too’
And my allergy to fuss extends into receiving praise. As part of my day job, once a month we do outside broadcasts in front of an audience. If it goes well, and depending on the amount of alcohol consumed, some members of the audience might come up to me afterwards, say nice things and ask for a selfie. We had one in Dublin a few months back which my sister and niece attended, and during the selfie-taking session, my niece whispered: could you even pretend you’re enjoying this?
I thought I was pretending.
The last few weeks at work have been particularly fraught in this regard with the 20th anniversary of my first show on Newstalk. Understandably, they wanted to turn it into a bit of a thing. Cakes. Speeches. On-air promos. Teary tributes.
God, no. Every fibre of my being revolted at the prospect, and so began a long rearguard action on my part to quench even a hint of celebration. So far, (at the time of writing this), I think I’ve succeeded. But I’ve seen the bafflement and frustration in the eyes of my colleagues, a desire to shout: what is wrong with you?
Of course, my words here beg another obvious question: if I didn’t want a fuss about the 20th anniversary, then why write about it a national paper?
Because it is a profound contradiction. I have a job which explicitly involves drawing attention to myself, but I don’t enjoy drawing attention to myself. I do greatly enjoy my job, even the performative aspect of it, but in my mind the occasional attention it garners isn’t the reward; it’s more an occupational hazard.
I know. But it makes sense to me.
In psychology, there is a relatively new thing called echoism, which in its milder form is a personality trait, and at it’s most extreme can be debilitating. The flip side of narcissism, people with echoism don’t like receiving compliments and hate being the centre of attention. In some cases, that can mean they never make their voices heard.
I think I may have a touch of that, but I won’t be rushing off to get treatment. I like it. It fits who I am, both personally and professionally. Professionally, most of my job involves interviewing people. And, after 20 years, here is what I think: the best interviewers have that all-too-rare ability to shut their mouths and listen. The whole point is to get the interviewee to speak, not the other way round. Good interviewers have to be echoists. It is something I continually aspire to and occasionally succeed at. Now: look at me being all big-headed.
Of course, my words here beg another obvious question: if I didn’t want a fuss about the 20th anniversary, then why write about it in a national paper? It’s a contradiction. Deal with it.