Vanity

Let me start by saying if I wasn't at work, you'd be seeing a full body shot of Y.T. in his undies to the left of this here text.  Who knows, maybe I'll even edit this entry when I get home and put it in post-post.

That's how bad I'm getting to be, and that's what I'd like us to talk about today.

I've always had a (mostly) positive view of myself.  Even in those awkward years during middle and high schools I figured I had a certain charm and used it to become the make out slut I'm known as around my apartment.  No matter if I always thought it was the kind of charm you'd apply to a dilapidated old building or a mentally retarded kitten.  Plus I have the sort of pillowy personality that people seem to enjoy, and that can go a long way for a kid with a gap between his teeth who's eager to please.

But lately tongue-in-cheek self-deprecation has led to self-confidence which is now giving way to straight up vanity.  I think I'm a regulation hottie.  Have you guys seen my legs?  They're off the hook.  I've lost count of how many friends and strangers have said I look like Johnny Depp, and even though I think it's just our weird facial hair that's similar, it's still flattering to hear twelve or so times.  Add in the adoration and admiration of the coolest girl in school (and the fact that she's actually excited to have my horrible chud of a kid), a promotionless raise, then a raiseless promotion, and a group of friends who I think are the greatest peeps around and my head is getting pretty big.  Oh, and speaking of, I gots a package that UPS can't even deliver.  If you catch my drift.  Hurr.

You may be thinking this could all just be contentment with a life that seems to be going well.  I'm healthy, the wind is in my direction for now, and while I'm not rich or rolling in bikes and/or teen nymphos I'm a happy guy.  But I know my own mind.  There's a difference between thinking, "Man, I'm in the best shape of my life.  Good for me, super-duper." and "Yeah, you'd do me.  We both know it.  Let's not pretend otherwise.  Ughn."

See what I mean?  But the latter is pretty much what's going on in my head when I'm out in the world.  Even if the voice is more Jemaine Clement doing "Business Time" than Barry White doing "Let's Get it On", I'm still not so sure I like all that going on up there.  What kind of mental state is that for a guy like me to have?  When did this happen?!  Take how silly and ridiculous that internal dialogue sounded to you and amplify it by ten, and that's how dumb it feels to be the one admitting it and picturing it from your angle.  I blame Kasey for giving me a constant diet of compliments and physical attention disproportionate to the reality of my physical merits.  You ladies gotta be careful with that stuff, it's dangerous business.

So what now?  Is awareness enough to make me stop staring at my legs whenever my pants are off?  Is simply admitting I have a problem enough to turn off the Isaac Hayes-voiced stream of self-compliments that goes on and on and on?  Will knowing that you know that I know that you know that I think you'd probably hump me stop it from going through my mind?  Probably not.  Just like any kind of internal change it's going to take time and practice.

So if you catch me walking like I've got "Stayin' Alive" going through my head, and I look over and smile at you with a mischievous grin, just shake your head at me and give me the kinda look your grandma would if you were being bad.  That'll help.

 - David