Aging

Drink makes me gregarious. I make good conversation when under the influence. I'm true, honest, articulate and definitely not boring. Well, that is at least the impression I have impressed upon myself.

Accumulated data suggests that the defendant can get crass. Can be as crass as that athletic little fillie in a hot pink lycra dress, who gaggles on about her genetically inherited figure and then lists the number/amount of each type of fatty food she ingests in a day. Crass, yes. However, a loss of delicacy certainly does not imply a downward spiral in deliciousness of soda-fountainhead generated life truths, spasmodically spewed to the general glee and ticklement of little innocent bystanders. No, not little, innocent bystanders. Little innocent bystanders.

The downside of this apparent lightheadedness is that one lets one's guard down so that when one is quite merry making an ass of oneself, misery pounces on the unwitting singular. Or compare it with climbing a masochistic ladder and then wheee-ing down the slide attached to it, at breakneck speed. It's fun till your bottom hits the bottom a little harder than previously expected. Leaving one gawping and on the verge of tears.

On a portentous evening not too long ago, my climb up the ladder began with the unfortunate realization that all the people around the watering hole (or at least a few to many) were looking at my two pretty friends. Before you grunt as a sign of disgust and fatigue, let me just say that humans have had vanity challenge issues ever since they were lice-picking monkeys. So puh-leese. Anyway, didn't a sodden old joker once say life's all about the small things.

Zen knows I won't be the first one in the line of word-users to admit to the ugly-duckling complex, with a Hyde twist of course. That said, I also do feel pretty sometimes (sheesh) and have an absolute blast splashing around in the shallow and scented.

To stick to the point though, I was mighty pissed for not getting any attention in spite of the fact that I should be used to this sort of thing by now. Did I mention that everything that’s not matter in the Universe is in fact my ego? Be that as it may, I was pissed. Then I was pissed about being pissed. You know the sort of thing. Too tedious to elucidate.

At such points in life, the Wise One in me disentangles herself from the mess I’ve got myself into and speaks to me in the second person. We had the following conversation the next morning:

Me: *!@!$!#!@
Wise One: You need to stop being repetitive.
Me: All a guy ever wants in a girl is big hips narrowing into a waist like a bottle-neck and then blossoming into just the right amount of bosom.
Wise One: Yes, you were very voluble in stating that opinion last evening.
Me: Ye-es. Apparently not the sorta thing one’s supposed to declare to an unsuspecting clientele. I think it’s perfectly tame. Well at least I tried to be poetic with it. No-one was looking at me! (Burble burble).
Wise One: Is there a mandate on that?
Me: Oh shaddap. I’m funny, witty, talented.
Wise One: So?
Me: Well they should at least glance if not swoon and die.
Wise One: Don’t people have the prerogative to look at anything that pleases their eye or otherwise?
Me: I suppose so (whiny and spluttered)
Wise One: Well what in the name of grunge are you sobbing on about then?

That was the clincher. Vain I shall probably be forever and more but it’s ludicrous for me to expect the general public to indulge in my vanity with the same degree of zest as me. What's more, it's absolutely and unconditionally unpardonable for me to then get self-righteous about the whole thing. So as things stand, I have conquered the beastly brat within. Life promises to become interesting. Maybe I’ll even start writing in the third person.