Saturday, June 30, 2007

Switcheroos



My “no” switch has never really fully developed. I don’t know if somebody dropped me on it as an infant. Family has never brought it up. But experts (ex-girlfriends) say, by a certain age, I should be able to say no to my whims, fantasies, urges and desires (dark or otherwise.) Unless by a “certain age” they mean sixty or seventy, I’m afraid I’m behind schedule.

The signs were innocent enough, but noticeable. When I was maybe five, my family went to visit Uncle Bill and Aunt Madeline on the rich side of town. They “had money”: a nice, tastefully furnished house. Uncle Bill liked to go on safaris in Africa, and the basement was full of mounted animal heads and a footstool from a real elephant’s foot. (People used to do that back then ----think Hemingway.) We sat in their living room, chatting away. Madeline made the mistake of putting a LARGE bowl of whole cashews on the end table next to me. They were more than wonderful, and I ended up eating most of the bowl until I proceeded to throw up all over one of their rather expensive Persian rugs. To their credit, they did invite us back.

Madeline and Bill also figured in an example of another malfunctioning switch of mine --- the “I’m hurting” switch. They took my sisters and me out to dinner in a real restaurant and a movie (a Disney nature flick about “Perry the Squirrel”; one star.) Getting out of the car at the restaurant, I accidentally slammed the door on my thumb. Nobody saw me do it, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself (especially after the cashew caper) so I kept it hidden, had dinner and saw the movie, without telling anybody, even though it hurt something fierce. Finally, Madeline noticed tears in my eyes and my thumb resembling a yellow and blue throbbing rutabaga. It has become a trait of mine: Most of the time I won’t tell you what’s wrong. Yell at me, beat on me, all you want. I will clam up, cover up and not give in. Armchair psychologists (ex-girlfriends) say there’s something definitely wrong with me. I refuse to discuss it.

I suppose if there is a God, he must be wondering why he has extra parts left over. The “no” switch malfunction is harmless enough unless you happen to own a genuine Persian rug. But things can get nasty when it comes to cigarettes, beer and scotch--- or, in my case, a carton of cigarettes, a case of beer and a bottle of scotch every couple of days. When going down that road you tend to meet other people with busted “no” switches, and if they’re fairly attractive young ladies, things can seem okay for awhile. Of course you can’t go on like this for long. Your body has an emergency “no” switch (and when all else fails a “kill” switch just like your Square-D circuit box.)

So I’ve gone from 25 year-old Glenlivet to Gatorade (“How the mighty have fallen!”) and my biggest nemesis is back to being whole cashews. Some day I might make amends with the creator and get that missing part---- as long as He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong.

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