Starbucks coffee and a chicken sandwich in hand, I took my seat at the airport facing the bar from a few feet away. My flight to Chicago was delayed by about an hour. I decided to finish up client notes from the day before.
A woman singing a vacation song entered the scene. She walked right up to a man seated in the bar and gave him a bear hug, still singing, trying to make the man dance. Her hair was in two French plaits, and she wore a faded denim jacket with embroidered flowers.
Her singing drew my attention two more times as other friends joined them. I assumed they were college friends on their way to a reunion vacation.
How does one sing like this with no inhibition? As someone who barely bobs her head to music in public, I wouldn’t know the answer to this.
Where did she get this kind of confidence from? Was she born with it? Yes, as a practicing coach, I believe we are all born with it. But in her case, her upbringing cemented it. Or at least didn’t pass it through the wanky sieve of judgment fueled by protection too harshly. So, she retained some of the self-confidence she came with. Good for her.
Two of my friends usually bring out their playful sides from time to time with me. They demand playful adventures like kids do, and insist that we get together soon. They giggle and snort with zero concerns about who’s watching. They make me join in their laughter, while I’m wondering why I’m so buttoned up.
I’ve observed myself get more playful when I feel relatively safe. This has happened with a few romantic partners, who have heard my “baby voice” or seen me squeal in delight over nothing much. As I’ve healed layers and layers of psychological wounding as a divorcee, my playful self has begun to emerge in the solo hours as well. She jumbles words in my head, rhymes rubbish, and dances out of nowhere. I love her much, and I’ve missed her loads.
