On the Skin: The Art of Keeping it Moving

Some people overshare. Others build emotional fortresses. Me? I’ve mastered the fine art of keeping it on the skin.

Perhaps you’re familiar with the drill. Someone asks how you’re doing, and before you can answer, they’ve launched into a monologue about their week, their pregnant cat, their new coffee and lemon diet. And that’s fine. People love to talk about themselves. I get it.

So, I listen, nod in the right places, maybe throw in a well-timed “Wow, that’s hectic” for effect. It’s an exchange, a chess match I intend to lose fast and go home for some quiet, really. It’s a dance with 2 left feet. But when the music fades, attention shifts to me? That’s where things get whatsoever and otherwise.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk. It’s just that when the subject is me, the conversations tend to skim the surface. I drive them on the surface, deliberately. Slowly or quickly over the vaseline anointed skin. I’ve perfected this skill for years. Nothing goes in, nothing goes out. And maybe that’s for the best. Because the moment it dips beneath the skin, when the questions get too deep, too personal, I question it all. I get that subtle but unmistakable disconnect. The mismatch of concern versus comprehension. Suddenly, I’m explaining instead of sharing. Or worse, I’m being consoled for something that doesn’t need consolation.

Take my life as a special needs parent, for example. People mean well. They really do. But the way they react tells me all I need to know. The standard “I don’t know how you do it” or the slightly pitying head tilt. The vague encouragements, the misplaced admiration, the assumption that I must be some kind of saint. The conclusion that I’ve got it together. Let’s be clear, I don’t. None of us has. I’m just a parent, doing what needs to be done. No capes, no halos, just reality. Many of you do the same, we just don’t stand on top of church steeples and shout.

So, I keep it light. I’ll talk details (emotional, spiritual, logistical) so long as they slide on the Vaseline. We can discuss the systems, the routines, the bureaucratic gymnastics required to get what’s needed. But the moment we start peeling garlic layers, I shift before the stink comes out. Not because I’m hiding. But because some things don’t need to be shared with everyone. Not everyone earns that torture.

And that’s okay. Not every relationship is built for depth. Some, of course are for depth, but depth on superficial matters. Some are for exchanging pleasantries (like the hi, hello, how are you, I’m fine how are you again ones). Some are for venting about the unpredictable damp English weather and the price of cheap no-name bread. And that’s enough. And it’s actually good that, it’s all enough.

But every now and then, you meet someone who gets it. No explanations needed. No performances required. And when that happens, you might just let them past the skin. Until they strike a nerve ending.