#180: Against self-analysis - by Haley Nahman - Maybe Baby

The other day, while tidying up the living room, I caught myself draping a magenta muslin cloth across my wool lilac pouf as if I were styling it for a photograph. The colors and textures were striking together; the scene gave me a tiny rush. But right behind the rush came a flash of embarrassment. The cloth wasn’t supposed to be “aesthetic,” or serve a superficial end, it was made to wipe spit-up off my baby’s face. Who was I performing for? This admonishment arrived by habit, and it wasn’t until a few days later, when I did the same thing with a new cloth in a new place, that I realized the critique was silly. I’ve had strong sensory inclinations my entire life—I was just arranging things for kicks. I’ve been thinking about that critical impulse, the one that pushed me toward the most ungenerous reading of myself in the most efficient way possible. I imagine these impulses arriving one after another, tweaking my self-regard like a cruel puppeteer. To call this dance “negative self-ta

The other day, while tidying up the living room, I caught myself draping a magenta muslin cloth across my wool lilac pouf as if I were styling it for a photograph. The colors and textures were striking together; the scene gave me a tiny rush. But right behind the rush came a flash of embarrassment. The cloth wasn’t supposed to be “aesthetic,” or serve a superficial end, it was made to wipe spit-up off my baby’s face. Who was I performing for? This admonishment arrived by habit, and it wasn’t until a few days later, when I did the same thing with a new cloth in a new place, that I realized the