Do you remember this?
Yup . . . the theme song for the old television show, Alfred Hitchcock Presents . . . Funeral March of a Marionette.
I caught it out of the corner of my eye . . . a fleeting image . . . that image. The closet doors in the master bedroom of our house are full-length sliding mirrors. I guess the previous owners liked viewing themselves. I do not. Mirrors only serve the purpose of allowing me to do my morning hygienic routine of shaving and combing my hair. Other than that, I avoid mirrors. I avoid them because they are blatantly honest in their reflection. You can blame them for this rant.
As I was preparing for a night of blissful sleep, stripping down for the night, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse. What did I see? I saw the shadowy profile of Alfred Hitchcock . . . the rotund image of a person whose mid-section has been transformed into the belly of the Pillsbury Poppin’ Fresh Doughboy. It stopped me in my tracks . . . a sudden existential crisis smacked me in the face! Who was that portly fellow in the mirror?
Much to my embarrassment . . . it was me!
Let me explain. I have never seen myself as one of those who are numbered among the beautiful and handsome. No, mostly I have spent a lifetime seeing myself on the side of ordinary and quite plain . . . in fact, at times, quite goofy in my appearance. Nothing to write home about. Average. Time has confirmed that as I have aged through the years . . . less hair, a few wrinkles here and there, and the migration of weight to the equator portion of my body. I am older, rounder, and balder which does nothing to help the way that I look. I look more like the father in the comic strip LuAnn. Just call me Frank.
Now that is the reality. The problem is most of us do not live in reality . . . I mean, come on, look at the political circus we continue to wallow in. No, when it comes to how we view ourselves, I believe that most of us prefer our illusions. For years my illusion has been Brad Pitt. Yeah, that Brad Pitt. I know . . . I know . . . I am a far cry from the image of the actor, but in my mind . . . I am Brad Pitt. It gets me through the day and as long as I don’t get caught in a photograph or mirror, I can pull off the illusion. Shoot, I have been pulling it off for years!
I am certain that there are those who grace my life who would disagree. Who would tell me that I am delusional. That I need to get my eyesight checked. More Alfred Hitchcock or Frank than Brad Pitt. That is why I avoid getting myself in photographs or lounging around in front of mirrors. I like who I think I look like. That is probably why I like hanging around my grandchildren . . . they think I look great. If they knew who Brad Pitt was they would probably agree.
Except for one time when one of the “littles”—around the age of three—curiously pointed at the Dunlop around my midsection and asked, “Are you pregnant, Papa?” Yeah, she was removed from the will, but has since worked her way back into the good graces of my love. Lucky for her she is cute.
So, there you have it, the conundrum I live with daily. The battle between reality and the illusion . . . most of the time the illusion is winning, and I am quite blissful. Except for those minute moments when I catch a glimpse of reality. Thus, the life mandate of “no pictures”, “no mirrors”, or just hanging out with the little people in my life. Grandchildren are the greatest! Of course, you are probably thinking that there are ways that I could bring reality closer to the illusion.
And you would be right.
The gut reaction first . . . I am too tired and old to jump on that bandwagon at this point in my life. I mean, we all know, that dieting, and exercise would go a long way in removing the Dunlop from the middle. Just the mere thought of doing either of those or both together sends ways of anxiety through my physical and mental being. I like my diet even though my wife has tried for decades to steer my eating habits towards the direction of healthy. Less red meat, more chicken, and salmon. I did that for awhile and then one day I took a bite of chicken and could not swallow it down. Since then, the only way I eat chicken is if it is deep fat fried with the skin left on. Same with salmon. Throw in turkey too. The vegetables I don’t mind, but don’t mess with my beef and potatoes. If something is going to kill you, I think a person should enjoy it. No one wants to die sad, depressed, and hungry.
Exercise . . . I know it can be done at any age. I enjoy walking my dog. I’d love to get back to hiking on a regular basis. Calisthenics seem extreme. Treadmills might work, but I already spend enough of my time spinning my wheels and getting no place. Same with stationary bikes. Back when I began sports all my coaches would get on us if we did not exercise on the weekends. They would tell us that every day we missed of exercise would take double the effort to catch back up. That would mean that I would need to exercise every day for the next ten years to get myself up to the point where I am ready to begin exercising. As I said, it wears me out just thinking about it and I am entering into the back part of my life . . . is that how I want to spend my time?
Not really. Instead, I think I will just continue embracing the illusion and avoiding those situations in which reality butts’ heads with the illusion. I certain that Bard Pitt is not aware of the fact that I consider myself his equal in appearance. If he did, he would probably hit me with a “cease and desist” order. I am willing to take that risk. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
In the meantime, how others see me . . . I have no control over. In fact, that is their problem and not mine. They should keep it to themselves. If they want to see Alfred Hitchcock or Frank from LuAnn, so be it. I can handle that as long as they don’t mess around with my illusion. One of my favorite sayings is “ignorance is bliss and I am one of the most blissful people you will ever meet.” Don’t mess with my illusion. It works for me.
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