Esther McCarthy: Why are Irish women of a certain age so very bad at taking a compliment? 

When I see teenagers lolling around the Mac counters, it triggers me. I'd like to see them make themselves look good with a pan stick, ghost lipstick and clear mascara

Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn

WHAT? This old thing? No, it’s years old. It cost tuppence. It’s the wrong colour for me. Here, YOU TAKE IT.”

Behold, the average reaction of an Irish woman getting a compliment. It could be a tracksuit pants, or a ballgown. It doesn’t matter. But it begs the question: Why are we so spectacularly bad at taking compliments?

I was at a Network Cork event recently, and I was wearing a
shirt I actually quite like. A friend casually told me it was lovely, and I immediately launched into the usual routine. In case you are
normal and can have an appropriate response to someone saying something nice, let me break it down for you. Like grief, there are certain stages to the Irish Woman of a Certain Age reaction to a
compliment. I call it Distorted Compliment Disorder (DCD).

Step 1: Denial and disgust

Even though you may have been coveting this top, saved up for it, and were so looking forward to trying it out in public, you must now break its fabric heart. “THIS top? No way. God, it’s pure awful on me. Sure, I just threw it on.” Feel free to stick your fingers down your throat, producing some bile and or vomit, for added emphasis.

Step 2: Question their sanity

Arrange your features to one of
incredulity. “THIS top? This one? Err, ok, wierdo. Get your meds checked, Looney Tunes. Are you high?”

Step 3: Self-depreciation

Deep breath, you’ve trained for this. “Oh my God, stop. Shur, it covers a multitude. It barely fits me. What’s the difference between me and a sack of shite? The sack, oh no wait, I’m wearing it. HAHAHA.” (Viable option here to run off crying to the bathroom.)

Step 4: Deflection

You must now, with intent and malice, redirect to the person who dared to say something nice in a public setting. “What about YOU? Wow, this is stunning! You’re like a supermodel.” This hopefully
engages their deep-seated fear of being ‘full of themselves’, and they will start going through their own stages of DCD.

Step 5: Cost analysis

Even if you spent your last month’s paycheck on this top, and your children are wondering if there’s any other food group than beans, you must pretend, at all costs, that there was, actually, no cost. ”Jeepers, I think I got it in Penneys, on sale.” Freeze in realisation fast fashion isn’t cool, and backtrack. “Actually, no, I got it in a charity shop. It was 27 cents, I was robbed!”

Then pour your drink over your head and sob until they back carefully away and go torture someone else with their kind words.

On this occasion, however, the compliment giver took a deep breath, looked me square in the eye, put her hands firmly on my shoulders and said: “Stop. Just say thanks.”

Whoah. Could it really be that easy? Why am I just so uncomfortable with compliments?

First off, I do think it’s a generational thing. When I was growing up if you were caught so much as glancing in a mirror, or doing something outrageous like washing your face or brushing your hair, you were pounced on for being, in our house anyway, “septic”. If you wore a hairband to school, you had notions.

When I did start wearing makeup, I was mocked mercilessly. I once made the mistake of putting my pale pink (almost white)
Constance Carroll lippy from the Pound Shop on looking in the kitchen mirror instead of waiting until I got on the bus, and the ribbing I got haunts me still. Those bastards called me Mick Jagger for months.

When I see teenagers lolling around the Mac counters, openly preening, it triggers me. I’d like to see them make themselves look good with a pan stick, blue eyeshadow and clear mascara.

But then, we didn’t have the pressure of selfies and social media and having to constantly be camera-ready, so I go from seething to feeling really sorry for them. I’m telling ya, a stroll through Brown Thomas is a
goddamn emotional rollercoaster these days. I need to chill out, or find somewhere else for my free spray of perfume.

But I digress, back to the mockery. The truth is, the devastating personal attacks just meant my family were quite fond of me.

Back in the day, If you mocked someone, it meant you liked them. Nowadays, it’s a bit different. I’m lucky to get through
the day without Deirdre in HR getting involved. So, while I will definitely try to work on my
Distorted Compliment Disorder, I still reckon the people who like you the most are the ones who’ll take the time to take the piss out of you.

But don’t take my word for it, my very best friends, Slutbag and Shitforbrains totally agree.

Why are we so bad at taking praise?