Over the weekend, I had a really strange encounter. The specifics are totally negligible— at least when it comes to proving my point here. Basically, I would like to dissect the root behind the phrase: Mind Your Own Beeswax. — Affectionately (or annoyingly) referred to by seven year olds as ‘MYOB’. But first, let me take a selfie. **Sorry, correction. But first, let me tell you why we’re discussing this today. 

After I heard an acquaintance was gossiping about me, I kindly asked said acquaintance to please respect my privacy. Or, in preschool speak, to mind his/her own beeswax! Acquaintance responded with a resounding, “It’s none of your business!”/“I can say whatever I want!” Now, here’s where Robert Frost comes in. (I know! Bet you didn’t expect to see him here!) Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I… got really upset. It totally surprised me that someone wouldn’t just apologize. For the rest of the weekend, I walked around with some seriously fearsome anxiety pumping through my veins. I had not been expecting such a strong rejection of, what I, Avery, believed was reasonable. It freaked me out, and disturbed me. I was confused, to begin with, why someone I barely knew had something to say about me, but I was also hurt. Don’t we all just want to go along minding our own
beeswax, being happy and striving for growth?!

So here’s the deal, the question, the situation, whatever. I am not an intensely private person— hello, I write a quasi-revealing blog. At the same time, I am a human being, and my feelings do get hurt. Maybe it wasn’t my beeswax to confront the acquaintance…but was my beeswax the acquaintance’s beeswax to share and twist with others? I have been raised during an era in which Caroline Knapp’s beautiful Drinking: A Love Story was written, a highly emotional, incredibly personal story about a young woman’s struggle with alcohol. She welcomed everyone to join in her beeswax, because she felt she had a story to tell. My grandmother read Didion’s “Slouching Towards Bethlehem” as a young mother. Again, another series of personal revelations and opinions that Didion wanted to share. So maybe I should be proud of my beeswax, my business, the things that someone else sees as threatening enough to be shit-talk worthy. The things someone thinks I can be judged for.

Unfortunately, I’m not Caroline or Joan. (At least, not yet.) And I want my business to be my own. At the very least, I want my business to be accurately conveyed. I think we’ve all experienced this in some capacity or another, fighting against inaccuracies or false representations. I hadn’t experienced that before, and I’m sorry everyone, because that really sucked!…

I guess in the 18th and 19th centuries, when small pox was super prevalent, some women used beeswax to cover up their resulting skin blemishes. If, while sitting by a fire, the woman’s wax began to melt, her friends might yell out, “Mind your own beeswax!” How. Crazy.