I have had an ongoing problem for as long as I can remember. No matter how old I am or how much weight I gain, my britches are always too big.
Well, they’re not to me. To me, they are just right. But it seems others think that I am too big for them. I don’t know why. Yes, I was cursed with a pretty highly developed noggin. It can be lightning quick at times. As such, I often look like I’m not very interested when someone is talking to me. It’s not necessarily that I am actually bored. I just have a devilishly short attention span. Today they call it ADHD. I’ll go with that.
This isn’t entirely my fault. The synapses in the brain just connect the dots very quickly. And though I may indeed actually be very interested in your story, I may have just already arrived at the end, know how everything turns out and have moved onto the next piece of stimulus my brain continually begs for. If you’ve ever watched the movie Short Circuit, I’m Johnny 5.
This happens all the time, especially in meetings. When I was in corporate, a meeting would go on for an hour or usually longer. I would already be at the end in the first 15 minutes. I already knew what had to be done. I had my checklist all filled out as to my responsibilities, decorated beautifully with tons of doodles that were masked as furious note taking.
It’s been this way for as long as I can remember.
I can only assume that the fact that my britches that are too big for me is the reason why I can’t hang about dumb people very long. My eyes just gloss over, largely because if I were really to pay close attention, my IQ might begin dropping like a barometer on a winter’s day. Sometimes I can feel it start doing this, like when I’m in a bar next to a drunk. Not any drunk mind you, there are some very smart drunks. But a barfly type drunk, one who has punished his brain cells unmercifully for years and actually believes that he doesn’t have to pay taxes or that his unemployment check is his God given right.
It’s a good thing that I don’t have big britches and a temper. If I had been a more violent person, said barfly would be laid out on the barroom floor, as my ability to humor him would be very, very finite.
When I do run into someone who is trying to be the “cock of the walk,” I will play with them in “screw with you” mode, much like a cat will play with a small bird that fell out of its nest, knocking it around in the air just for giggles and grins.
I particularly love to play with people who are also too big for their britches but have nothing to really support it. For example, people who want to impress me with who they know or who they’ve met along the way. As soon as you drop even a single name, you’ve lost me. Don’t care one bit. Not impressed. Never will be.
I’ve met my share of luminaries as well. Some famous people are really fun to hang with, others are complete assholes because they drank from their own well too many times. I don’t care who you know or who you blow. I only care about the cargo you’re carrying in your own hold – who you are, nothing more.
And while I may genuinely love stories (there are thousands if not tens of thousands of really fascinating people out there), just don’t be one of those people who try to tell an even more fantastic story than somebody else. I can smell embellishments a mile away — hello, writer! — and I am likely to switch into screw with you mode if I think you’re gilding the lily too much. I don’t mind a little braggadocio, just don’t lather it on too thick.
I guess the good news is that my britches aren’t as big as they used to be. One of the great things about growing older is you start to lose a lot of your testosterony… you know, the San Francisco treat. As such, you don’t really care as much about things that used to totally piss you off all those years ago when you were brasher and bolder.
Oh yes, I had really big britches back then. You could put 20 people in them and still have enough room for a game of catch (bring your own balls, please – mine have been through enough).
The sad truth is, others had bigger britches than I did. This was always a point of contention, because as we all know, there can only be one king of the hill and arguments about who has bigger britches always becomes a bone of contention and can even lead to a “britch-off.”
Me? I don’t care if you have bigger britches. If they are too big, I might take them down a size or two. I’ll take in the seat a bit with a few verbal jabs that leave others in stitches, I will seem so friendly, while giving you a mental wedgy for all your friends to enjoy at your expense, and then I will finish up by removing any remaining threads of decency you have left, so you are naked for all the world to see.
You may not even be aware of it, either. As I said, I don’t really have to take you down a size or two to your face. Instead, I may undress you right here in RobZerrvations, or perhaps you will end up a character in one of my books. You just never know where the score will be evened.
O.K., so I guess my britches are still a bit too big. I suppose I could take them in a bit, but then I wouldn’t have as much material to work with.
In the Emerald City, just bob bob bobbin along,
– Robb