Part 8 of the Morocco miniseries: Words from the dusty road
“Well fuck you too!”
Near the end of our trip, it is not uncommon to hear this type of exchange between Mark and I. The words might seem extreme, but I assure you it is only so on paper. At least, my interpretation of our interaction dictates so.
These exchanges come not as hatred, but more like a frustration that we felt about the way the other person are. The problem with being an adult is that we each has our established values and habits and we both have enough confidence in ourself to not bend over backward to get pooped on by other people.
I remember that there was a time when I was afraid that people would lose respect or dislike me if I show the negative side of me. Over time though, I found out that I much prefer the company of those who knows my quirks and still accepts me. I don’t have to or want to watch my behavior with these people, nor do I have to worry about them pissing me off because the feeling is usually mutual.
This is reinforced by the fact that I met the people I met on this trip in my most dishevelled state possible, yet they still enjoyed my company. (Think no shower for a few days, no shaving at all with sand and dirt in my hair). I was being accepted the way I am and I was glad.
One of the first thought I had when I got back is: “Wow, people take a lot of effort making sure they look good.”