Sometimes you just need a boot up the arse (or Chinese No!)

Self-deprecation has worked rather nicely for me in the past. It's fast, free and usually attracts attention.

Why does this kind of thing always happen to me?
What am I doing with my life?
Why does everything seem easier for other people?
I don’t have any skills.
I’ve put on at least 5 kilos in Italy.
I’ve put on at least 10 kilos in New York.
And let’s not even talk about London.
I’m too tall.
I can’t find shoes to fit my giant baguette feet.

And so the list continues…

There’s something oddly addictive about it – like touching a bruise or eating spoonfuls of Nutella.

Self-deprecation has become a humorous, idiosyncratic part of me: Louise; Franky; Lulu; Tall Idiot (that’s one I came up with myself); Companyetti (but I can’t take credit for that one); whatever the hell you people are calling me these days.

My family have never been alarmed by this kind of behaviour. After all, I come from generations of self-deprecators. It’s kind of our schtick. (Except for my Sicilian side of the family who, out of all of us, probably have the most reason to dislike themselves – with their wonky eyes, giant piano-key false teeth and tight gentleman’s perms.)

But, yesterday, Hin wouldn’t indulge me. Upon hearing about my missed yoga class, cranky boss, lost Jonathon Safran Foer novel (with only 20 exciting pages left to read), and resultant declaration of my general ‘lack of skills, Hin proclaimed that he would take me out to dinner. Yet, from the moment he arrived at my door, my self-pity would not be acknowledged. In fact, I was lectured.

“At some stage Louise, you are just going to have to admit to yourself that you have skills.”

I told him that he should be kinder to me.
I told him that he didn’t understand me.
I cried.

And then, suddenly, I realised that he was right, I realised that I was exhausted from years and years of negative thoughts… and that this has to stop.

Thank you Hin, for the boot up the arse. Okay yes, I admit it, I have skills.