Monday, June 05, 2006


"Nobody likes a martyr, Ed"

I winced when I heard it, the particular pain felt by a target squarely hit with perfect accuracy. As much as I hate one of my own often repeated lines being used against me, it really summed things up. So true - so True.

Damn it.

Cloaking ones self in a wet blanket soggy with self pity, is not a good look - on anyone. Nothing drives men away more effectively than it's damp musty odor of despair.


I needed a new outfit.

No matter how well he's turned out, the attitude a man wears is the first thing people notice; tossed rakishly over eagerly expectant shoulders or drooping heavy and sullen on a back bent to bear the weighty disappointments sure to come. It creates a clearer and more lasting impression than watch or belt or shoes. Before my next outing, I rummaged through the perspectives, expectations and preconceptions in and on and immediately surrounding my wardrobe. I really need to get more organized. From the jumble I extracted a pair of Big Boy Pants - creased with the folds of long storage - shook them out and pulled them on.

The pants fit - a little unfamiliar, a little stiff, but they fit. I told myself that they would loosen up and relax as, well, as I loosened up and relaxed. So attired, I headed back out, girded in a brave (if some what thinly woven) optimism. Latching the door behind me (leaving the previous night's sour mantle behind to be addressed at some later point by psychotherapy and/or dry cleaning ) I noticed right away that I walked differently, taking longer surer strides down the hall way and out into a night of endless possibilities.
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