Yous & Mes

I have a flaw.

I know. “Stop the press!”

Alas it’s true.

Recently somebody pointed it out. Understand that even as I mention it, I’m not making fun of that person, or belittling their criticism. We all have opinions. Would American Idol survived without opinions? I think not. And even though my opinion of that show is low, I welcome any Simon Cowell to my life as a Joseph Stalin of love--or something like that.

“Please, tell me more about your concerns. Stand just a little to your left. Please! Ignore the firing squad, just express…”

Likewise, I appreciate the well wishers who’ve chimed in and said, “It’s OK Rob, we accept you the way you are.” I like being liked. During the worst times, we find out who our real friends are. I’m sure Joseph Stalin could express that as well. If you’re going through hell, look around you. Those people holding you up now? Those are the people you want to keep around forever. Seriously. Put them in the freezer. They keep well. You can pull them out as pick-me-up-sicles later. It’s a little trick I learned from Martha Stewart.

Me? I don’t keep well. I spoil easily, don’t bother—nobody wants a spoiled manboy around. You’ll never get the remote control from his cold furry hand. If you’re lucky, it won’t be the hand down his pants. You’ll never want to touch the remote again.

“Rob was over last week. You want to change the channel for me?”

That’s not my flaw. It’s more of an endearing quality really. And for people supporting me, I’m a big manboy. I don’t need defended. Well, maybe a little. Ok, you, miss with the flower in your hair, red. Right. You can defend me.

Why is she running away?

That’s the problem (not mine). People are so hard to read. You can’t tell who’s really who they pretend to be until things get tough. We lose so many allies that way. I got married once. The one thing I loved most about her was that she never pretended to be anything more or less than who she was. When times got tough, she remained true to her nature.

“Get that remote out of your pants, Rob. I’ve brought you a cold beer. What happens next will decide where I put it. You can have it on the table, or you can have it—“

“Oh my!”

Married things were simple. It didn’t stop us from being ourselves though, and in the end, we killed us.

I can say I tried my best to be just as open.

“There is no try, only do.”

Yeah, thanks Head Yoda. Fine, let me say, I believe I did, but my Rob-pinions are biased. I am my own worst critic. That’s why even when I’m being all the Rob I can be, the things other people say bounce around in my skull like a super ball from a cannon.

“Is it true?”

“Are they crazy?”

“Is it because there’s nothing in this skull to slow this ball down?”

Probably.

With nothing else in there, there’s a lot of room for the ball to hit a blob of me. My cranial cavity is oozing with me, like Ghostbuster ectoplasm. See, everything hits me, because everything is about me. You know this, right? Look all around you. There’s a little bit of Rob everywhere. It’s ok, no need to be alarmed. It’s good for the soil.

The Pirate Queen and I discussed this.

“Everything is about me!”

“I know Rob, because nothing is about me.”

You might think she’s being sarcastic, but she’s not. We hold polar philosophies on this. Here’s an example. She calls a penguin friend, inviting them over for Saturday. That penguin never calls her back. Maybe he’ll show up on Saturday, maybe he won’t. That doesn’t matter—at least not to the queen. She believes that her friend is a penguin, and therefore lacks the fingers to hold—let alone dial--the phone, and if Waddles doesn’t show for dinner, then his actions support the queen’s theory.

Me? Waddles better call me back, or I’m having penguin burgers: it’s all about me. His actions speak more about where I sit on his scale of priorities and I know where I sit on my scale of priorities! He needs to find a way to peck-dial, and caw into that phone because it’s rude not to.

It’s all about me-- No, this isn’t my flaw. It’s the side affect of one of my better traits and I won’t change it. I accept its existence, and take careful efforts to process things accordingly. I’ll fume over Waddles until I remember: the cause of the crisis? It’s all about me.

Ohhhh…

You see how this could be a teeter-totter of death for the Pirate Queen and I. She may hop off the low end, seeing herself as “just too busy.” I’ll slam to the ground with a tail of pain. I know she got off because it’s all about me.

The funny thing is that it’s just as bad if you’ve got two “mes” or “yous” together. With two yous you’ve got either a bad line from My Cousin Vinnie, or two people ignoring that anything is about them until the teeter totters and breaks under the weight of unclaimed me. With multiple me’s you’ve end up with two individuals jumping up and down, ignoring the other me in the house, who’s now seething because “how could you ignore me?”

Personally, I think there are more mes, but that’s me. I’m a me. Still, how many mes read a book, an article, or a blog and go, “That’s me!” I think far more than go, “No, that’s just you.”

That’s why communication is key. The queen and I set up a talk table. It’s more folding table than a large dinette. It’s portable and we can throw down when and where we need. We both sort our cards into issues and deal them out accordingly. Sometimes it hurts, but by keeping our hands above the table and open, we sniff each other’s palms and tell their intent.

This allows us to air our issues, knowing the other person won’t throw cards in our face, call us “Waddles” or worse, and storm away. We listen, exchanging our perception of “me and you.” It’s what keeps us alive and together--That and the queen’s mean plank policy.

This is what I try to do in all my relationships. Sometimes it’s easier than others, because some wrestlers will take the table and beat you with it. That’s fine. As I explained at another friend’s table, “I’d rather err on the side of love.”

That’s why, when I was confronted about my flaw, I did my best to respond in said fashion. I sat at the table, she reached out and touched my hand. Petting my fingers, the Pirate Queen said, “You’ve got a boogie in your nose.”

I cried.

Cuz it’s all about me.