THE NEW ME-NORMAL

Isolation generates new and gloomy challenges. And to fight gloom, it’s best to be bizarre. As the entire planet reinvents herself, I’m doing likewise. But, in truth, self-reinvention has been a constancy of mine all my life. 
Is this my new heyday?

Total solitude justifies total freedom during self-regeneration. Wife, kids, grandkids––gone. Me? Real gone. During this crisis, I’ve ensconced  myself into a cottage with two cats. Perfect companions. No negative feedback no matter how insane my choices.

No one asked for this Covid-19 nightmare, but it’s here and it demands a vital period of adjustment. Luckily, I inherited a fun trait from me sweet Irish mum. She marched to the beat of her own drum and developed an obsession with reinventing herself.

Like Mum, like son. Whereas most kids wanted to fit in with the crowd, I did not. Playing with my regiment of little tin soldiers when I was five, I developed a phobia. They were all dressed alike. So were my classmates.

Fearing I would become a clone, I’ve launched into a lifetime quest for individualism. And that requires perpetual reinvention. Madonna, the queen of self-reinvention, has nothing on me.

Reinventing myself has become my signature, my lifestyle. Now more than ever. This year, it requires a lot more of sifting through the windmills of my redundant mind. Now, as I readjust to the world’s new normal, I must readjust to the new me, the new me-normal.

All this introspection demands that I redefine myself from my image as a super-macho sports freak and finally find my deeply hidden feminine side. (I can’t even write that with a straight face.).

I’m not about to waste this social distancing period on valuable accomplishments. Not on your life. I’m no goody-two shoes. Why spend this precious time learning a new language or engaging in meaningful online volunteer work? 

Who needs self respect? I need mindless, meaningless frivolity in my old age. I’ve come to re-enjoy staring intensely into a mirror like I did 40 years ago when I was a stunning wannabe male model who couldn’t grow facial hair. 

Now I’ve re-fallen head over humble heels in fascination with my own reflection. This time around, I’m obsessed with my facial hair. I’ve all but swept myself off my feet. 

I’ve finally grown grossly bored with my lifelong habit of wearing a different hairstyle every day. However, my facial hair has stayed monotonously the same since it finally came in when I was 40. How boring. What have I been thinking? Reinvent. Reinvent. 

Full disclosure: due to fabulous genes, my head hair flatly refuses to turn gray. Drat the luck. Alas, my facial hair is another story. Humor has it that my beard instantly turned totally white from fright the first time I saw a nude senior citizen––in the mirror. (My head hair remained brunette at that moment, but it did fly up into the air like a frightened cartoon character.). 

Henceforth, I’ve dyed my beard––and only my beard. Sorry, macho men, white simply isn’t my color. 

Tragically, the online stores claim to be out of beard dye during the Covid-19 crisis. My God, what happened to it? Who would hoard beard dye? Who?

What to do, what to do? What else? Reinvent. Without another thought, I shaved off the beard. 

Yow! How horrifying. I looked like my I.Q had dropped 40 points.

So, I started all over again with a series of mustaches. First with a pencil ‘stache. Graduated to a Fu Manchu. Evolved on to a  handlebar, gradually looking stupider and stupider with each ‘stache style. 

Furthermore, each “new me” increasingly frightened the cats.

When my cretinous experiment culminated with the wacky walrus look, I came to what few senses remained and grew my beard back. 

Hallelujah! Having a white beard and brown head hair maintains my image as a lifetime warrior of clone-shaming. I’m definitely unique. Who the hell else would want to look like this? 

The cats love it.

Hells bells, isolated or not, I’m staying high maintenance. Gotta be me. Gotta be the new me-normal. Gotta maintain my image as a chick magnet. 
Suddenly a song runs through my brain all day: “I’m Bringing Sexy Back.” 

Meow!

— Steve Eskew

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