I am extremely sensitive.  Like, my eyes will get moist if you look at me funny sensitive.  I have always been like this, and people have reminded me of it (“Oh, hon, you’re just being way too sensitive.”) more times than I care to count.  My skin thickened slightly after I lived in Manhattan for two years, but I’ve pretty much accepted the fact that, emotionally speaking, I am the most delicate of flowers.

I was reminded of this yesterday when I was browsing the young adult section at the public library.  There were two girls standing nearby, and they were probably about fourteen or fifteen.  One of them said, “I just can’t find anything good to read.”

I raised my eyebrows.  Nothing good?  I was staring at shelves full of books by E. Lockhart, Meg Cabot, and Rachel Cohn.  In other words, YA royalty.

So I said, “I’d be happy to recommend some books to you.”

Without even glancing at me, the girl quickly replied, “No, that’s okay.”

Her friend looked at me as if to say, “Yeah, that was kinda harsh, wasn’t it?”

I did my characteristic shrug that I do when I don’t want people to know how much they’ve just hurt me.  I went to the other side of the book shelf and blinked back tears, my face burning with humiliation.  I’m just no good with rejection.

Not to overanalyze the situation, but I’m sure the girl was wondering what the heck a thirtysomething woman carrying a baby in a sling was doing perusing the YA section in the first place.  Like, how would I know which of those books were any good?  I considered going back and saying, “For your information, I have written a book that will hopefully be sitting on one of these shelves in a few short months.  And I’m writing another one.  Don’t you even KNOW who I am?  DON’T YOU?  Oh, just wait.  You will.”

But I doubt she would have cared.

After a few deep breaths, I felt calmer, and I took my daughter and a copy of Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist out to my car and drove home.  As I braked for a stop light, that familiar shame crept into my brain, the one that says, “Why do you have to be such an emotional wimp?”  Fresh tears formed at the corners of my eyes, and I began the usual cycle of getting mad at myself for crying, then thinking about what made me cry in the first place, which worked me up even more.

Then I stopped myself.  I had nothing to be ashamed of.  The girl’s abrasiveness had upset me.  And it was okay.  Not her behavior, but my response to it.  I accepted my emotions and let them wash over me.  After a minute or two, I already felt better.

Yes, I am the most delicate of flowers, but I learned yesterday that there’s nothing wrong with that.  I can just be me and feel what I feel.