“Let me give you a scenario…”
I’m sitting opposite my psychiatrist and he’s - for the umpteenth time - trying to explain to me how a neurotypical person perceives the people around them.
“The other day I was interviewing for a new receptionist at the office” he tells me, “and a woman arrived to the interview wearing casual clothes and thongs.”
“OK…” I don’t know where he’s going with this.
“So. If you were in my position, would you hire that woman?”
He sits back in his chair, arms folded.
“Uh…” I hesitate. “It depends. Is she qualified? Is she right for the job?”
“You see, most people would say no. They wouldn’t hire her.”
I sit back in my chair, arms folded. “I don’t understand.”
“She’s wearing thongs. Why do you think she’s wearing thongs?”
I’m getting annoyed at him. “I don’t know. Are they nice thongs? You can get those fancy ones-”
“-they’re just ordinary tho-you’re missing the point.” He’s getting annoyed at me. “Why would she show up to a job interview for an office position wearing a pair of thongs?”
“…because she can’t afford shoes? Lots of people can’t afford shoes.”
“Most people would assume it’s because she has no respect for the position.”
“Most people are arseholes.” I shift in my seat. I’m thinking my psychiatrist is an arsehole.
“Most people would assume that she’s the arsehole.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t hire her.”
It’s New Year’s day and I’m in my friend’s kitchen trying to explain to her why I’m thinking of finding a new psychiatrist. I use the “Thongs Dilemma” as an example of why I think he’s just not the right fit for me.
She rinses a cup and stacks it neatly into the dishwasher. “This woman clearly doesn’t care about the job.”
I’m aghast. “But you don’t know what her story is! You don’t know anything about her!” I suddenly feel like a child trying to convince myself that Santa Claus is real after seeing my dad place presents under the Christmas tree wearing nothing but green and red boxer shorts. I’m panicked. I’m defensive. I’m way too defensive.
I sigh heavy. “I just don’t know if I want a psych who has a different moral compass to me.” And then, like being thwacked in the face with a size 10 knock-off havaiana, I’m hit with a painful thought. Maybe it isn’t my morals that have me imagining this woman as a single mum hard on her luck, her only pair of good shoes broken at the heel, her kid sitting outside the office in their house/car with the window cracked waiting for mummy to come back with the good news that they’re finally gonna have a roof over their heads again, just in time for the new year. Maybe, instead, it’s because I’m incapable of imagining the inner life of a person who would simply be too lazy to put on a closed toe sandal to score a part-time receptionist gig. I don’t know what it would be like to care that little, especially about a potential job. It’s a scenario that would mortify me, the kind of offence I’d have night-sweats about 50 years later, waking up in my retirement home next to the pile of closed toe shoes I’d collected over the years just to ensure it would never happen again.
Maybe every person in my life who’s treated me like shit hasn’t done it because they’re going through something. Maybe they treat me like shit because they’re a shit person.
My friend is still stacking the dishwasher. I swallow that thought, along with a big gulp of coffee. “But you do this with men all the time, you make excuses for them, you assume the best.”
“Yeah, but that’s a self-esteem thing. I know they’re doing bad shit, but I’m just grateful for the attention.”
(As a side note, it always baffles me that my most beautiful, brilliant friends tend to be those who have the most insecurities).
She’s scrubbing a pot now. She pauses, looks to the middle distance and says “it’s a really good question, though. I mean, not hiring her would be my first impulse… but then... I’m not so sure.” She returns to the pot, attacking a particularly sticky spot.
I take another long sip. I think about why humans make assumptions. It’s instinctual, it’s about protecting ourselves. “It’s about self-preservation, that’s what he was trying to tell me. He thinks my instincts are dysfunctional.”
Upon reflection, he isn’t wrong. I went on one date in 2020, with our only covid-safe(ish) option being sitting in this guy’s house watching movies. And that’s exactly what we did. Even when our Uber Eats arrived he chucked the spread on the dining table, turned his chair away from me and shovelled the food into his gob while continuing to watch Back to the Future III. And while I appreciate a guy who loves a problematic sci-fi classic, a little conversation would’ve been nice. Nothing about the way he behaved that night told me that he liked me, but I was still willing to give him a shot. He showed up to the date wearing metaphorical thongs and I thought, oh, maybe his dog ate his shoes? (Or maybe, thongs is what I deserve, but let’s not step into that quicksand just yet).
This isn’t to say this guy is a bad person. It’s really more an indictment on my inability to register when someone is just not that into me. Sitting in my psychiatrist’s office faced with this imaginary woman in thongs, there wasn’t a moment where I thought that maybe she didn’t really want the job. Or maybe she didn’t have even a rudimentary understanding of what is required for a front of house position, and therefore is clearly not the right fit. But worst of all, I didn’t think of the consequences of me hiring a woman without her signalling to me in even the most basic form of social decorum that she respects me, that she respects who I am and what I do.
My entire life, I thought that assuming the best of people was one of my finest qualities. It felt like I had a giant moral dick, and I was walking around smug as hell about it. I had no idea that in assuming the best of people, I was consistently accepting people at their worst.
“I still don’t think my psychiatrist was right,” I tell my friend. “I don’t think it’s OK to immediately assume the worst of someone, either. I think there should be some kind of balance here, between self-preservation and generosity. I think he should’ve asked her why she’s wearing the thongs.”
“But… how would you even do that?” She closes the dishwasher door, but it slams like an exclamation mark, the way all dishwasher doors do.
“I dunno.” I look down at my cup. No more coffee. “I’ll figure it out.”
This is quite thoughtful and excellent. And the phrase ‘giant moral dick’ will live with me forever, thanks
Brilliant writing, thoughtful and honest (as always).........BUT.........and in full recognition of how little I know, what's interesting to me is how you get annoyed at your psych (quite quickly it seems......) -- strikes me you don't look for the positive/good in him? And yet, ironically, it's his thongs-question which sparked your excellent piece? And I think you are right, too many people have just dozed off on their (life's) watch and care little (which is tremendously sad)...................so that said, never stop caring too much.
But, as an afterthought, maybe that's why you have the psych -- he's the one person you can think badly of? Which is, I think, just plain healthy -- we can't be all good (or, at least, I can't!).