Who I am

Who Am I?

I’m Spiderman
I am Jack’s raging bile duct
I am the Walrus

I am a bricolage of pop cultural references. Mostly lame ones. And they burst out of me at inappropriate moments. Like singing to my boss that he’s killing me softly with this workload. Not that there ever really is ever an appropriate moment to do that.

But I honestly get uneasy that I know Paris Hilton has created a new superhero with Stan Lee. I get more concerned that this knowledge sits in the forefront of my mind, ready to spring into conversation; a dirty secret that may unleash itself, like when the person next to you on the bus sees you queuing up Britney Spears on your iPod. And yet for some reason I can’t help but angle the conversation towards a Paris Hilton related topic... which really isn’t too hard these days.


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I am a product of my parents…
…unfortunately this means I am destined to become as hairy as a wolverine. Thanks Dad. I mean the guy has hair sprouting out from under his collar even when wearing a turtleneck. No doubt I’ll wake up sometime in the next few years to find my teenage years were leading to a seminal teen-wolf moment. And while I still struggle to grow a fashionable beard, I’ll sport a full body pelt the envy of any game hunter. This does not bode well for me in modern society. I mean it was Ok in Dad’s generation. Sean Connery would light a cigarette and the latest Bond girl would twirl his chest hair. Probably even weave some design into it for a sexual thrill. Women would swoon at this. Men would rub their chests with hair-grow lotion. That was cool then.

Daniel Craig doesn’t have chest hair. You see my problem.

In the shower today I noticed burgeoning shoulder hair. I also realised that no one can tell if you’ve been crying in the shower.

Not to worry, I’ll most likely be shot before I reach fifty. Some Good Samaritan will heroically take out the hairy beast-man allegedly mauling some hapless older suburbanite when in reality I was just offering to help an old lady carry her groceries.

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But internal anxieties are not all who I am. In fact I’m more so my external anxieties. This is basically defined by the shoes I wear. I own three pairs, each rated from one to three on a scale of casualness to classiness. Most often I wear the pair rated number two – retro Adidas kicks that can be worn to uni and most restaurants, but not nightclubs or weddings (definitely not weddings my Mum has confirmed). This is comfortable mediocrity with neat jeans and shirt to match. In this state, I am expected to be relaxed yet social, approachable and affable; the kind of guy who stops for a conversations and impresses upon others a strong sense of direction in his life. He’s the kind of guy who will one day wear only number three shoes. This puts a lot of pressure on me as I have no real sense of direction and no real interest in full commitment to number three shoes. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to wear number one shoes but then I remember they have holes in them and my feet would get wet if it rained and no one likes wet feet.