He transformed into a natty fellow last night. I don’t how it happened. One night, he’s a sixties throwback with a ponytail, who bullies me; the next, he’s wearing a ratty flannel and acting complacent. And then he transforms himself into this perfectly dressed, charming, magnanimous guy with a great haircut. Not only that, but he speaks multiple languages, including all the Romance idioms, and he plays several instruments. He’s kind, rather than argumentative, and never, never complacent. Did I mention how charming he is? Let me tell you something–this guy can’t be my animus. It would be like forcing Simon Pegg into a snazzy suit and shoving a cocktail in his hand.
Don’t get me wrong. As much as I’d like to tap into the charming inner place of my soul, I’m more likely to trip on my tap shoes and fall off the stage. Years later, I’ll argue with you over whether or not your interpretation of my fall is the correct one. I might even find an expert to back me up. Nix that–I am the expert (on tripping over myself, anyway). So why do I need to wear a suit, again?