My inner critic spends a lot of her time on holiday these days. The universe of opportunities for her has shrunk: no muti-million-dollar deals to lose, clients to piss off, teams to lead astray, young kids to screw up. The world has simply given her less to work with.

I remain wary.

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I turned onto Fern Street with confidence, despite a ROAD CLOSED sign visible from outer space. But in New Orleans, road-closed signs suggest a possibility, not a guarantee. Per Kendall’s direction, I had already blown past one on Broadway with zero consequences.

Fern Street, alas, was not Broadway.

On the horizon materialized one bobcat, a dump truck full of gravel, a dumpster, and a hole the size of a kiddie pool. To each side, parked cars. And me, in our Subaru Crosstrek from the dark ages — wallet-sized backup camera with inexplicable hash marks on the screen and not so much as a fender-saving beep — with Kendall riding shotgun.

Here’s the deal about me: I have zero spatial awareness. I don’t play Tetris. I suck at Jenga. Lincoln Logs were the death of me. I also think my small car is the same size as the giant Land Rover I drove for a decade.

I began to turn. And turn. And turn again. Reverse. Drive. Reverse. Drive. One inch at a time. My Fitbit buzzed. Was I exercising? it wanted to know.

In no time at all, I had wedged the clown car sideways with nowhere to go.

I waited for my inner critic horror movie music to start. Then Kendall’s voice cut right through before the first violin.

“Wait — I can do this. I drive these streets all the time! Let me show you.”

A Chinese fire drill ensued.

Then in a three-point turn fit for a Driver’s Ed video, she had us free of the mess and headed the wrong way back down the street. We zoomed off to eggs-in-a-hole awaiting us at Satsuma, our favorite breakfast spot, outrunning my inner critic the entire way.

That afternoon, Kendall headed to class. I headed to Audubon Park.

I did what I always do there: walked laps and people watched. The glory that is New Orleans was in plain view: the tattoos and t-shirts and green hair and funky hats. The crapey-limbed oldsters and the flaily-limbed young. Roller skates. The real kind.

Above and around all of us the ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss held the whole scene in place.

On the first lap, this noticing took all my attention. By the second lap, the questions arrived: Why didn’t my inner critic show up? Where was she?

Have I matured out of the inner critic, trusting myself and my intent? Doubtful.

Have I accepted myself, flaws and all? Unlikely.

Have I banished this unproductive activity through sheer willpower alone? I wish.

Will she show up again? 100%.

I wish I had the answer to her mysterious no-show. I wish I could say “here’s what Kendall did, here’s what we can learn from it, here’s how to starve the critic.” But I’ve got nothing. No clue why the horror film turned into a family comedy this go-round.

But… what this makes me think of most is, if my inner critic is chased away by a simple Chinese fire drill and a capable kid, how real was she in the first place? Maybe she’s more like the easter bunny or the tooth fairy than I thought: something I believed in for a while. Until I didn’t.

That evening Kendall and I sat catty-corner at The Huskey, sharing our first bona-fide toast now that she’s 21.

“What did you get up to today after breakfast?” she asked.

“You know, the regular, Audubon Park. And, hey, speaking of that, I just wanted to say, I really appreciated how you handled this morning. You were really gentle about it. You didn’t make me feel like a moron.”

She looked at me like I had three heads.

“What do you mean?”

“Before breakfast? When I got the car stuck.”

“I mean… yeah, of course,” she said, like I’d thanked her for passing the salt.

She shrugged and picked up her menu. Two minutes later we were debating bread pudding versus beignets… like nothing ever happened.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

To the puzzles in life,

Sue

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