Should we all stop trying to be likable?

I’ll go first.

Tennis is generally a source of joy in my week. I am not a diehard or particularly good player, but I’ve been taking a class with five other women for 5+ years, and it’s consistently a highlight of the week. (I even contributed a quote to PureWow about this luxury!)

But a few days ago, something bizarre happened. I signed up for a makeup class, and throughout the entire hour, the instructor completely ignored me, directing no more than three or four words my way, all the while giving a steady stream of feedback to the other three women in the class. Weird, right? 

About 15 minutes in, while doing ball pickup, I reintroduced myself—I’d taken a class or two with him before—thinking maybe this was the problem, that he had forgotten my name. “I remember you,” he said. Okay. 

Still, it continued. You might be wondering, Was this maybe in my head? I wondered the same thing!

But as the class went on so too did the ignoring, and my feelings shifted from puzzled to agitated. At one point I made a truly spectacular shot—nothing. Crickets. I muttered under my breath, “Great shot, Gina.”

Don’t say anything, I coached myself. (Somebody had to be a coach in this scenario!) What good will it do? You are signed up for this same class next week. Don’t make it awkward.

At another point, in what can only be described as a heroic display of empathy, I said to myself, Who knows what he might be going through? 

And then came serve practice, when this instructor paid loving attention to the other three women, giving them hands-on, individualized pointers. To me, he said nothing. Not one word. For ten full minutes. I was incredulous.

I felt heat start in my belly and rise to my cheeks and then, after he clapped for a fellow tennis player, I blurted out, with a big smile, “Well, I guess my serve is PERFECT, because you haven’t said one word to me about it!”

He muttered something or other and left the court; the lesson was over. As I walked toward the exit he was nowhere to be found.

Reader, I waited for him. 

By the time he skulked around the corner, I’d cooled down. 

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked. He stammered his assent. “Listen, I didn’t mean to be aggressive there,” I started. “I’ve taken classes with you before, and I felt like I learned a lot from you and we had fun. And maybe this is all in my head, but it felt like you ignored me throughout the lesson. You gave me no feedback, positive or negative. Which was a bummer and felt really weird.”

“I’m sorry you felt that way,” he said, and walked away, audibly thwacking his tennis racquet into his right calf in a way that couldn’t have felt good. 

I walked out of the place feeling almost… giddy? I was smiling the whole way home, replaying the conversation in my mind. Ever since, I have been wondering what it says about me that I a) initiated this confrontation and b) rather enjoyed it?

I’ve been thinking about being likable, being a good girl. Girls in particular are taught to be kind and gracious and pleasing. At what point are you doing yourself a disservice by following those rules?

I took my kids to a fancy hotel breakfast on their first day of spring break, and they both ordered giant stacks of pancakes. My 10-year-old, Henry, told the waiter how delicious they were—twice. But he couldn’t finish his plate—who could?—and he started fretting. He felt he was being rude, and he worried the chef would be offended. I told him about the time Jake and I were on an eating tour of New Orleans, when I was a travel editor at Rachael Ray’s magazine. I told him that his dad had those same instincts, that he felt compelled to finish everything we were served, but after one breakfast at Brennan’s (Champagne, bananas foster, fried oysters, crab eggs Benedict), he realized that his approach was untenable. 

Henry looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, “You know, it’s important to be nice and polite to people, but it’s also important to be kind to yourself.”

I’ve been thinking about the respect and kindness we owe ourselves, and the line that keeps popping up in my head is, Don’t be afraid to be unlikable. 

Would this have happened to me if I was 23 instead of 43? It’s become a cliché, that women become invisible as we age. But if we’re treated like ghosts, we might as well start haunting.

A lot has been said about giving fewer fucks as we get older. Another cliché. And maybe you could see my tennis instructor story as proof that at this stage of my life I truly DGAF. But I don’t know. I was listening to the poet Maggie Smith on the podcast You, Me, Empathy—she has a new book out; just downloaded the audio version—and I connected with what she had to say.

“My factory setting is GAF. I don’t manage to get the D in front of it. Logically, I’m there. But the knowledge that it doesn’t matter doesn’t always translate to the feeling that it doesn’t matter. If I gave fewer fucks I probably wouldn’t be a poet.”

I spoke up because I DO GAF. I am someone who will always GAF. But as I age I am prioritizing my relationship with myself over those with acquaintances or, to pick an example at random, tennis instructors. 

I like myself more as I age. I love myself more. And I am defensive of this person, me, whose instinct is always to please, to charm. I’m defensive of her soft insides.

Lately I have been defending myself even against my own thoughts. I’ve been wanting to lose a few pounds, summer coming etc., but I refused to take “before” pictures. It felt mean. 

Back to that giddy feeling I had on the walk home: I think I was sensing something click into place, a tectonic shift years in the making. I’m now seeking my own approval, and I was pleased.

Xo

Gina 

P.S. No, I do not know why that instructor ignored me. I relayed the story to my regular instructor, who shed no light on the subject. I’m afraid it will have to remain a mystery.

P.P.S. Yes, I canceled the upcoming makeup sessions.