The Identities of ME

You can’t run away from your past, at least that’s what they tell me.

I was walking to a class the other day and walked by an old friend. He promptly called out, “Hey Jojo!” This recalled a lifetime of old identities and odd personalities I used to (and still do) take on. If you haven’t already figured it out, I once donned the nickname “Jojo.” I know, it’s pathetic.

I’m sometimes covetous of names that can have “cuter” versions. Robert can be Bobby, and Tim can be Timmy. As of now, I’ve settled with the fact that the cutest version of my name is Matty. Obviously I’d taken that desire to have a cute name a bit too far in the past. The nickname “Jojo” actually originated from the Beatles’ song “Get Back,” but in hindsight, I realize it sounded more like a blonde cheerleader than the “Man who thought he was an owner.”

Do I give a bad review to myself, or to the people who should have stopped me from making such a social blunder? Well, I suppose the review should be divided equally between the two of us. I think that deserves four out of five toenail clippings found in mine/their Blue Bunny ice cream.

Rewinding further on the VHS of my life, I’ve come to the realization that I am the Madonna of Utah. Not because I posed nude for some pictures in the 80’s (which technically is true considering the baby-in-the-bathtub photos that are in my family’s album), but because I’m constantly re-inventing myself. Or rather, changing names/clothes/hair color all the time.
Another quandary; do I review myself for not sticking to one identity, or do I review myself for comparing my life to Madonna’s? Either way, the review would have to be a week locked in a dark room with “Holiday” by Madonna playing non-stop. That would be worse than water-boarding.

At the end of the 90’s and the beginning of the new millennium, I went by the nickname “Butterscotch” and frequented dance clubs and raves. I won’t get into the specifics there, but when I think about the outfits I used to wear I can’t help but wonder: did I look like the love-child of Cyndi Lauper and LL Cool J? Why is it I only comprehend my ridiculousness years afterward? Another review for myself: for not taking a hard look in the mirror and saying, “do I really want to go out in public like this?” I think I get eight out of 10 kisses from someone who has a big cold-sore.

Around that same time I believe I lied about my name on a job application, and then later faked my own death rather than quit. I promise I’m not making this up. I hated my boss so much, that I couldn’t take it anymore. I wrote her a suicide note and never came back to work. Is it fitting that my first major in college was Theater Arts?

Once upon a time I dyed my hair black, donned vampire-esque clothing, and told new people I met that my name was “Drake.” At the time, I wasn’t entirely aware that a drake was a male duck. I think I was 16. I do believe that was the same year I pretended to be twins.

I wouldn’t classify myself as a “liar,” just someone who likes to spice things up when life gets a little too boring. However, these things usually come back to bite me in the ass, and for not thinking these little embellishments through, my self-review is to drink two out of five glasses of lemonade, which in reality is water from the toddler section at the city pool.

Here’s a little free advice to any person who happens to have the free time to read my humble column: take a brutally honest look at yourself. Ask yourself some questions. Are the pictures people might take of me be incriminating in the future? Will my children look at me someday and say “what were you thinking?” When I lie to get out of class/work/dates, will that lie come back to haunt me? Is my nickname really that awesome? Ponder these questions. May you avoid the same pitiful faux pas that I made in my past. And now my children, go take on the day.