Stop camouflaging at work; do it at home

Being agreeable isn't even rewarded at work

Tiny Blowing a Bubble, Seattle 1983, by Mary Ellen Mark

Camouflaging is what women do to make sure no one thinks we're weird. This means we end up camouflaging at work and being too exhausted to do it at home. But home is where we really need it, because the effect of camouflaging is to be more agreeable to other people. And the workplace doesn't reward agreeableness.

We intuitively camouflage when we’re dating; don't do a bait-and-switch.

Once the kids were gone, I found myself choosing bras more carefully. I only have one real bra. The rest are running bras that squoosh. But I started wearing my real bra when Nino came over for dinner. We had not spent a whole dinner alone in 20 years. I wanted to look like someone he might like, so I put on makeup, but not enough for him to be able to tell that I put on makeup just for him.

It took about four dinners before it felt like before we had kids, when everything was fun if we did it together. When he met me I never wore bras - only bathing suit tops. So I quit the bra. And the makeup.

Aim for the tricky camouflage middle between controlling and a doormat.

We were spending so much time together that we needed a TV show to watch. Nino rejected all suggestions. We watched films that seemed to exist only in film school courses. I resigned myself to the fact that we are old enough to remember when TV was not cool and that Nino is not going to let that go.

I watch The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel without him. When the kids were around, I hid the fact that I did nothing but watch Mad Men for five days straight. Now I can be irresponsible. I can go to bed at 5am because I must see if Mrs. Maisel goes back to her ex-husband.

Cooking is a part of camouflaging. Don't do too much or too little.

It's a luxury to not have to pretend to be a competent parent. Now I can dine on Clif Bars and Diet Coke. Child services is not looking in my refrigerator. And I have a nutritional safety net, because I cook for Nino four days a week.

I hate to admit how happy I am not to cook for all four of us all the time. Z is a great cook, but somehow I always end up being his sous chef -- under poor working conditions. And Y is vegan, so I'm a Svengali of egg substitutes that work 80 percent of the time.

Remember that the point of camouflaging is to be easy to get along with.

By October Nino and I were branching out. Before we left for the Isabel Stewart Gardner Museum, I asked Nino if my pants matched my shoes. He was shocked that I was asking. But I've gotten accustomed to the kids critiquing my clothes before I leave: Are they clean? Do they have holes?

Nino and I peek at the Mary Ellen Mark exhibit in the museum annex. We agree that she took advantage of the kids she photographed, and she was mostly just interested in getting credit for getting access. No need for us to stand in the long line.

We wander around on the top floor looking at old European art in poorly lit rooms. Nino finds a door and says, "It's like your drawings." He knows what I like.

We get along so well that the kids ask if we'll remarry. It's a definite no. The kids ask if we've become asexual. The thought has crossed my mind. I should have had hormone replacement therapy ten years ago. But sex would complicate my life. So maybe sliding too deep into menopause has a silver lining.

Accommodating other people is exhausting. Don't attempt to do it all day long.

The kids used to ask Nino why he left us. He'd always say, "I didn't leave you, I left your mom." Now that the kids are gone, they're shocked that he's happy to spend time with me. I am not shocked, but I worry that the kids are insulted. I wonder if it's selfish to feel close to Nino when the kids cannot.

I notice that when the kids come back home, Nino and I move farther apart to make room in my head for the kids. My parenting skills have given up any pretense of being natural. And I worry I have fake relationships that I prop up or pull down depending on who is coming for dinner.

I don't think I have the energy to keep so many separate parts of my life on track. I picked Z up at the airport last week after staying up all night trying to make everything in our apartment the way he likes. I got myself to the right terminal and I was at our meeting place five minutes early - a miracle for me.

Then I noticed my shirt was on inside out.

I had to decide if he'd be more disturbed that my shirt was inside out, or that I was late because I went to the bathroom. Then I realized that I could switch the shirt right there in baggage claim, because I was wearing a sports bra underneath.

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