At six foot seven, I have spent most of my life being told that things were designed to comfortably accommodate an adult human being.
This has frequently turned out to be bullshit.
Airplane seats are an obvious example. Whoever determined the appropriate distance between rows on an airplane apparently used a very different definition of legs than I do. Getting into my seat requires folding myself into a position normally associated with competitive yoga, then remaining there while the person in front of me considers reclining their seat.
There should be laws.
Cars are another adventure. I’ve learned that “plenty of headroom” is a phrase written by people who have never met me. The first thing I do when getting into an unfamiliar vehicle is move the seat all the way back. Not a little farther back. All the way. That’s my starting position. Then I evaluate whether the steering wheel and my knees are willing to negotiate.
Hotels have their own interpretation of comfortable. Beds occasionally require me to decide which part of my body I’m willing to have hanging off the end. Showers can place the showerhead somewhere around my upper chest, turning bathing into a strange combination of crouching and watering myself like a houseplant.
I don’t even trust ceiling fans.
At my height, physical comfort sometimes requires creativity.
But comfortable means something different when you’re talking about people.
There are people around whom we sit up a little straighter. We choose our words more carefully. We wonder whether we’re talking too much or not enough. We’re aware of ourselves because some part of our brain is monitoring how we’re being perceived.
Then there are the people around whom that eventually stops.
My boys have obviously seen just about every version of me. They’ve seen Dad who knows what he’s doing, Dad who thinks he knows what he’s doing, and Dad who absolutely does not know what he’s doing but has committed too strongly to the situation to admit it yet.
They’re adults now, and one of the things I enjoy most about our relationship is that we can simply be ourselves around each other. We can talk about serious things and then, without warning, completely derail the conversation with something stupid. Usually one of us gives the others shit. Frequently all three of us participate.
That’s comfortable.
I’m finding that kind of comfort in my relationship too. There is something really nice about getting past the feeling that every moment has to be impressive. We can go somewhere and do something interesting, or we can do absolutely nothing remarkable. We can talk for hours. We can laugh at something completely stupid. We can sit quietly.
I’ve come to really appreciate the quiet part.
Comfortable silence is different from awkward silence. Awkward silence feels like somebody needs to do something about it. Comfortable silence doesn’t require repair. You’re just sitting beside someone you want to be beside, and nobody is responsible for entertaining the other person.
That’s a pretty damn nice feeling.
I’ve spent a lot of my life learning how to be comfortable in situations that weren’t necessarily built for me. Some of that was literal. Chairs, cars, airplanes and apparently every showerhead installed below seven feet.
Some of it wasn’t.
When I was younger, I spent more time thinking about how other people saw me. Being six foot seven makes disappearing into a crowd difficult, so I learned humor. I became Goofy. I’ve written about being Awkward, being a Nerd, getting things Wrong and all the other pieces of myself that I’ve spent the last few weeks poking at.
I’m realizing those posts have something in common.
I’m getting more comfortable with myself.
Not because I’ve finally figured everything out. Yesterday’s post should have eliminated any possibility of making that claim. I’m still going to say stupid things. I’m still going to make mistakes. I’m still going to become irrationally excited about tiny computers and camera equipment. I’m still going to tell Dad jokes that cause other people physical discomfort.
I’m just considerably less interested in apologizing for the harmless parts of myself.
I like who I am around the people I love. I like that my boys can give me shit and I can give it right back. I like being with someone who can share both the conversation and the silence. I like my weird collection of hobbies. I like laughing at stupid things. I’m even becoming more comfortable admitting when I don’t know something.
Apparently comfort isn’t always about finding something that fits perfectly.
Sometimes it’s realizing you don’t need to keep adjusting yourself to fit.
Although if we’re talking about airline seats, I absolutely need more fucking legroom.
Some problems really are the chair.