Not Good for My Rep
Does living in a small city make us bland, Helsinki?
On a loop: Bad Reputation, Joan Jett & the Blackhearts 🖤 This is a three-minute reading, almost same time as the song.
A new tarot deck has been slapping truths on my face. It doesn’t sugarcoat anything. It told me I’m a there-there person—a coward softly editing herself to be digestible.
When I was a teen, my mom told me not to kiss all the boys in town, or I’d get a bad reputation. Nowadays, I only want to kiss that one guy (whom I’m married to), yet I still worry about my reputation and try my best to make myself palatable for social and professional survival. This has gone so far that I can’t recognise myself anymore. I’m sick of my clothes, my photos, my social media, and my neighbourhood. I want to find a new place to live with a larger wardrobe, but the one with a walk-in closet had too many red flags.
You have to pay attention, because red flags in this town are dyed baby pink. No one dares to tell you that you suck. They know — or fear — they’re being watched, so they keep up appearances. Everyone is sweet, always smiling, and never criticises you. It’s a small city, and everyone knows everybody.
I know someone who’s supposedly burning bridges, and I wonder: is she? Or is she just refusing to people-please for the sake of her reputation? I would need to dig deeper into the gossip to get the details. But, you know, not good for my rep.
A friend once told me about a French guy she was dating, not seriously yet, though. As she described him, I realised it was the same guy another friend had kissed at a party a week before. Should I have said, “Hey, a friend of mine just kissed the same guy”? I didn’t think it was relevant. It just confirmed we live in a tiny little egg of a city.
Not saying this to justify my new bland self, still, my inner teenager is shaking her head at me. She was proudly one of the weirdos in my hometown — a place even smaller than Helsinki. She confused people with unconventional makeup, pink-and-purple hair, and outfits curated for the artsy gaze. She wore black Converse high-tops to a debutante ball. One friend’s mother forbade us from hanging out because of my eyebrow piercing she considered “lesbian.” Guess who turned out to be a lesbian after all? Mothers really do know their kids, and in the late 90s, it was still taboo.
I don’t want my inner teen to see I’m not bold anymore. I’m disappointed with this tame version of myself. That girl I used to be can’t stand it, and I hope she can help me to come up with a plan.
Please?
Can we take a break from everything? Just for a while. We’ll go through some sort of detox or spring inner cleaning. We can think of a short solo trip, with a silent retreat, no mirrors, no internet. A place where no one knows our name, and we can choose whatever we want. Maybe Chlöe or Mathilda. We can shop for vintage and dress however we want, just to feel something different. I’ll start with black jeans and a cowboy hat. Pink roller skates, no purse, a pocket knife, and cash in my bra.
This is not just about the outfit. On my way back, I promise I’ll be brave enough to be disliked. We’re not on a diet, but I’m leaving the sugar behind. No rudeness—just honesty, assertiveness, and the refusal to shrink myself to meet imagined expectations. Maybe they’re just waiting for someone to stop performing for them.
❋ Secret Book Club — Saturday, May 23, our book club returns. This time, we’re reading I Who Have Never Known Men and gathering at the coziest market in town for a delicious brunch. Expect brunch, coffee, gossip, bingo with surprises, and great conversations—guided by Carol Bonatto, a voracious reader and writer.