We were making a scifi-style poster for a few n competition at work. As we weren’t terribly organized about it, we took pictures with poses that might look cool, and later someone stitched it together in Photoshop. On one intermediate design that I showed to my husband, I was holding some big guns. In the final image, it was a bow.*
“A bow is less badass”, he commended, disappointed. “You used to be more badass.” Short pause. “That’s what I liked about you.”
Ouch. I don’t think he intended to say something hurtful, but it stung. Not least because I know he is right. I used to be more badass. And it’s not something I planned to change. But, while the world doesn’t need my superpowers any less, there’s a small person who needs me more acutely. So I spend quite some time changing diapers and making silly faces and reading books with rather few words. And while I think I do my job well, it’s not with the ambition to change the world next month. And to be honest, I’m okay with this.
I feel compelled to point out that the only weapons I handle in real life are knives, typically used against carrots