There is something wrong with me.
Picture this: I’m in a diner, head bowed over my notebook as I write, occasionally scratching out a word or line or tearing the page out to expose a fresh sheet. The discarded paper joins the other debris on my table: three empty glasses, a half-eaten chicken-something growing cold with neglect, an iPod (for inspiration), sunglasses (it’s always sunny when you’re cool) and half the contents of my purse that I displaced whilst searching for a pen. I’m concentrating solely on the task at hand, looking up only to murmur a quiet “thanks” as the waitress brings me yet another Diet Coke (if I get cancer from the aspartame, I’m suing her as an addiction enabler). At times I mutter something to myself, trying out the cadence of a phase before recording it my notebook.
Interruption comes in the form of my cell phone crooning Hungry Eyes at me; it’s a good friend and I pick up. A quality conversation ensues and I begin to tell him about how I must look to other patrons at this diner: a crazy woman scribbling in a notebook, throwing back soda and talking to herself. I stopped myself halfway through my thoroughly entertaining description because I became a bit self-conscious of how accurately I was describing how a person might act after severe head trauma.
After hanging up, I chided myself on exposing too much of my quirkiness to people because “I don’t want them to think I’m weird.” After that, I chided myself again for hiding parts of myself that are less palatable to the unwashed masses because “that’s part of who I am and I shouldn’t be hiding my bushels in a barrel or whatever.”
So, after reflection, I’ve narrowed it down to one basic problem: I hide much of who I am to others because I fear people won’t approve of parts of myself that I really like.
Big idea: fixing this problem.
Baby step: blogging about it.
P.S. Keith, I don't think you're part of the "unwashed masses." More of a "too cool for school" type thing. Ya feel me?
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