Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Identity Crisis

Yah, this title is the word I came up with on the third try of a dictionary-flip word-prompt. The first two tries were adjectives, so I discounted them as ‘Word-a-day’ prompts. And ya gotta have a great prompt. 

My Webster’s New World dictionary defines identity crisis as ‘the state of being uncertain about oneself regarding character, goals, etc….’

So I guess that means I have an identity crisis every day. Except that I’m pretty sure about my character. My goals? Oh, too many to reveal in here to complete strangers, other than what I’ve already disclosed. (That’s just how Geminis are—we’re selective about what we divulge) 

Perhaps I’d be more goal-oriented if I had an employment-prompt. Sigh. 

In the meantime, my identity is fully intact. I’d find it impossible to have an identity crisis when I know exactly who I am, to so many people:  

To my mom, I’m the one she shares stash with, (our code-word for chocolate) and her deepest secrets; secrets my brothers aren’t supposed to know about until she’s six-feet-under. (You’ll also notice she made top-billing in my novel-ish ‘acknowledgements’)

To my dad, I’m the one who knows all about geriatric-healthcare, so I can ‘take care of him’ when he’s old. Unfortunately, he’s failed to digest that he’s spent years self-righteously chipping away any warm-n-fuzzy feelings I could possibly have for him.

To my brothers, I’m the free-spirited, childfree, older sister. One lil' bro is more accepting than the other, which will leave a gap one day that I’m not sure how I’d fill.

To my nieces and nephew, I’m the easy-going Auntie Writer, who’ll be there on their 18th birthday, ready to pay for their first tattoo. (If they choose)     

To my friends across the pond, I’m ‘Helene Hanff’; someone who wants very badly to visit the lily-pad of English literature, and chat for days over a pint.

To the staff at Powell’s New & Used Books, I’m the one that sits in the back, or to the side, during the book-readings, when I’m not spending hours in the stacks, determining which used and cheap paperbacks to toss into my plastic shopping cart.

To my favorite authors, I’m the one that leaves an occasional comment on their Facebook page, while either reading voraciously, or turning up a nose at a particular volume of their work. (I’ve always believed one didn’t have to like a writer’s/musician’s/artist’s entire body of work. Sometimes one just likes some things, and not all things. Or, is that just us Geminis?)

No, none of this sounds like an identity crisis. Sounds more like I’m just self-aware, and dealing with it humorously. Now, a mid-life crisis? That’ll be interesting. I’m about that age for one. Only I haven’t any baggage that usually comes with one. 

Perhaps that will be my identity crisis.

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