I think I’ve said before that I consider myself perceptive. I like to think I have people’s number at first sight, and after I internally sum someone up I confidently tell The Rock what “I know” about the person. “Oh, they’re bluffing,” I often say about buffons, for instance. “All bark and no bite. Very insecure on the inside, but trying to overcompensate with faux confidence.” Or, “She just needs someone to talk to,” I say about the friend who never asks how I’m doing. “She cares about me, she’s just going through a hard time.”
I probably don’t need to tell you I’m often wrong. As I move along this life, I realize I don’t know jack about much. My judgments and summing ups are flights of fancy and more projections or excuses than anything else. I’ve gotta say there’s some comfort in that. It means that maybe I don’t know everything, that I don’t have people all figured out, so there’s room for the unexpected.
But sometimes I am very let down by the gap between who I thought a person was and who they turn out to be.
Or worse that they are exactly who they told me they were and I made up my own story anyway.