The Other Side Of Me
Some mornings I wake up with my hair standing on end. I look a fright, split ends akimbo and reaching for the stars, and you'd think that I have had the fright of my life or that I've just come from a round of shock therapy, electrocuted by some mad psychobabblebloggologist.
I walk by the hallway mirror, and I wonder, "Well, how the heck did that guy get in here?" But it's really just me. Or another form of me.
I think everyone is really a composite of different personalities. Now, I'm not saying we are all schizo-frenetic, but I do think we can be different people depending on our moods or on how we encounter a particular set of events and circumstances.
Some mornings, I find myself nicely showered and shaved, neatly dressed in clean underwear (as opposed to no underwear at all), tucked nicely under some cool linen slacks, topped off with a pastel coloured golf shirt. Those mornings, I'm ever so polite, ever so acquiescent. I'll do anything, anywhere, anytime. Rico Suave has nothing on me.
Then there's that me that bucks and frets and disagrees and fusses with this and that. I may shower, but begrudgingly, and I definitely do not shave. I'll throw on a Led Zep T-shirt over some stained Levi's, drink coffee and smoke cigarettes out back. This is the me that hates the news, rails against the insipid stupidity of the world. How do you manage to ... ? What were you thinking when ... ? Why would you be so ... ? Don't you get it ... ? Hell in a hand basket, for Christ's sake. Oh, the dumbfounded fury of it all.
Most days, I guess that I'm a mixture of both me's — sort of a Happy Hour cocktail in the hands of a lesser female exec from Dupont who wonders if she could make more money as a hooker without realising she is a hooker anyway.
See, there's that sarcastic bastard that I am sometimes too. Another me, just itching to find a voice in the day to day goings-on of our crazy stink-bomb world.
When I get like that, my friends say, "You need more sleep," and they tend to avoid me like I have some dire secret about life, some utterly unpleasant "truth bomb" scrawled on the back of a Starbuck's napkin that I might leave on the hallway table for everyone to read.
They may be right to hide on days like that. Sarcasm is brutal. Sarcasm is undoubtedly what caused the Cold War, way back when, way back when everyone was digging up the backyard and building a fall-out shelter instead of an in-ground pool. In the presence of a sarcastic person, trust me ... you want to have a place to hide.
All I know is that I'm always OK with me, whether electrocuted or grounded, whether gratified or grumpy, whether sarcastic or Splenda-tongued.
What other choice do I have?
Some mornings I wake up with my hair standing on end. I look a fright, split ends akimbo and reaching for the stars, and you'd think that I have had the fright of my life or that I've just come from a round of shock therapy, electrocuted by some mad psychobabblebloggologist.
I walk by the hallway mirror, and I wonder, "Well, how the heck did that guy get in here?" But it's really just me. Or another form of me.
I think everyone is really a composite of different personalities. Now, I'm not saying we are all schizo-frenetic, but I do think we can be different people depending on our moods or on how we encounter a particular set of events and circumstances.
Some mornings, I find myself nicely showered and shaved, neatly dressed in clean underwear (as opposed to no underwear at all), tucked nicely under some cool linen slacks, topped off with a pastel coloured golf shirt. Those mornings, I'm ever so polite, ever so acquiescent. I'll do anything, anywhere, anytime. Rico Suave has nothing on me.
Then there's that me that bucks and frets and disagrees and fusses with this and that. I may shower, but begrudgingly, and I definitely do not shave. I'll throw on a Led Zep T-shirt over some stained Levi's, drink coffee and smoke cigarettes out back. This is the me that hates the news, rails against the insipid stupidity of the world. How do you manage to ... ? What were you thinking when ... ? Why would you be so ... ? Don't you get it ... ? Hell in a hand basket, for Christ's sake. Oh, the dumbfounded fury of it all.
Most days, I guess that I'm a mixture of both me's — sort of a Happy Hour cocktail in the hands of a lesser female exec from Dupont who wonders if she could make more money as a hooker without realising she is a hooker anyway.
See, there's that sarcastic bastard that I am sometimes too. Another me, just itching to find a voice in the day to day goings-on of our crazy stink-bomb world.
When I get like that, my friends say, "You need more sleep," and they tend to avoid me like I have some dire secret about life, some utterly unpleasant "truth bomb" scrawled on the back of a Starbuck's napkin that I might leave on the hallway table for everyone to read.
They may be right to hide on days like that. Sarcasm is brutal. Sarcasm is undoubtedly what caused the Cold War, way back when, way back when everyone was digging up the backyard and building a fall-out shelter instead of an in-ground pool. In the presence of a sarcastic person, trust me ... you want to have a place to hide.
All I know is that I'm always OK with me, whether electrocuted or grounded, whether gratified or grumpy, whether sarcastic or Splenda-tongued.
What other choice do I have?
