Getting personal

If you'd asked me about my life last week -- or at any time in the
last eight years -- I would've given you this answer: "I am a writer,
specializing in the kinds of short stories that are never published. I
have a few close friends who share my bitter, cynical, darkly humorous view
of the world, and from time to time I pursue doomed relationships with
women. My life, which revolves around a love of super-heroes and the
shallow criticism of music and movies, is a series of episodes in which
bizarre events lead to brief glimpses of hope and finally an ironic
comeuppance for the main character -- me."

It's not what you'd call a cheerful outlook on life. To me,
however, being a miserable smartass always seemed the better of two choices,
as described by Raymond Chandler:

"It is the struggle of all fundamentally honest men to make a
decent living in a corrupt society. It is an impossible struggle; he can't
win. He can be poor and bitter and take it out in wisecracks and casual
amours, or he can be corrupt and amiable and rude like a Hollywood producer."

I'd come to see my role in life as coming to terms with fate --
learning to overcome my desire for something different and accepting the
basic plot outline that my life seemed to keep returning to, time after
time. I'd been getting pretty good at it, to, reaching the point where
nothing either excited or bothered me very much, except for episodes of
"The Flash" and the transcendent suckiness of Blockbuster Video.

So what's changed? Have I found religion? Found a woman? Been
slapped around a few times by someone less inclined to feel sorry for
himself? Actually, I'm not sure what's happened, but I can point to a few
clues:

1). Last week, I unearthed a copy of my sixth grade journal (OK,
I'll admit it; I called it a "diary" back then) in my parents' attic. How
embarrassing was the look back? I'll let you judge for yourself:

"Feb. 22, 1984: My room was just re-wallpapered with row after row
of ducks. Which I love, no kidding. Then I got up and went to the
bathroom at 6:14. Or was it 6:45? I don't rightly remember. Mom told
me to go back to bed. So I did. And I read one chapter of 'Amazing
Animals of the Sea.' It was on pinnipeds, and it was really good. So
then at 7:30, I got up again. And Dad told me to go back to bed. So I
did. And I dug out my old Muppet magazine and read that. Then it was
8:05. So I got up and went downstairs and poured myself a bowl of
Crispy Oatmeal & Raisin Chex. And that was OK. But there was just a
little bit of milk left. Good gosh! I hoped there was enough..."

Not only did I write "good gosh," but I can dimly recall actually
using that expression in my everyday speech circa 1984. This suggests that
at one point in my life, I
a). needed to be told to go back to bed after getting up earlier
than everyone else;
b). was a sweet, lovable, innocent, naive child, albeit one with an
odd cereal fixation; and
c). was a dork.

Nowhere does this early journal entry mention the notion of life as
a festering cesspool, the idiocy of the Republican party (in fact, an
election-day entry offers my hope that Reagan will win), or an evolving
love-hate relationship with all things female (Chrissy Hodge would begin the
cycle by shooting me down the following May). This brings me to a
seemingly obvious but ultimately far-reaching conclusion: I haven't
always been the same person.

2). This weekend, I had the opportunity to attend a few social events
with people I had never met before. Since none of them knew who I was, or
what I was like, I felt no pressure to try to "act like Rob," which meant
that for once in my life, I didn't try to act like anyone: I was myself.
No one there seemed to mind, or even notice, but I had a helluva good time.
Since this almost never happens, I reached my second conclusion: it is
possible for me to change the definition of myself I've created. I'm not
a cartoon character, even if I dress like one: I don't have to snap back
into the same situation at the end of each week's wacky adventures.

3). I've seen a light at the end of the tunnel. I won't describe
the circumstances under which it happened, but I've caught a glimpse out
there of a world very different than the one in which I've kept myself for
as long as I can remember. Getting there won't be easy -- it takes a lot
of risks, which I've tried to avoid, and conflict, and putting myself out
there where I could fail -- or even worse, succeed, which would mean I'd
have to do it all again, but with bigger stakes.

Frankly, I'd feel a lot safer being a comfortable smartass. As I've
discovered from reading my own journal, however, the things that once upon a
time seemed smart can seem kind of stupid after a few years have gone by,
and I'd just as soon avoid spending my life as an ass. I'd rather be a
dork.