Perception

Perceptions are something that always amuse me. I never bother to change someone’s perception of me. They can think what they wish, most of the time I don’t even bother to correct them when they get my name wrong. They can call me whatever they want, it’s fine by me. I may not respond immediately but I eventually get the idea they mean me, and respond. A friend of mine finds that hysterical. “Why don’t you tell them your name is Anjie??” I shrug, does it really matter what they call me? She shrugs back and admits that no it probably doesn’t matter at all. I get called everything from Ann, Andy, Amy, Andre, and there are others I just can’t recall them at the moment. As long as I remember my own name, I am all set. Maybe it doesn’t bother me because Anjie is not really even my name, just what I was always called. I have a “family name”, you know those names they give you with zero intent of ever actually calling you that? I got one of those. Don’t do that to your kids folks, save them the time of spending their entire lives correcting people, or from not caring and just letting people call them whatever they want. Weirdly hearing my given name gives me the same response as anything else folks who don’t know me call me. I have that pause as I look at them in question if they mean me.

There are perhaps a handful of people who truly know me, maybe a few more but not many more. I am I suppose many things too many people. At work to the customers I’m the nice woman who cares for their pets, and can pick up dogs that “their husband can’t lift, he’s too big”. I just smile and nod and tell them not to worry, we’ll “figure it out” (i.e. I’ll pick the dog up after you leave so you don’t stare at me like I’m a freak). On that note I’m often told that the dog I just lifted must only weigh 50 or so pounds since I picked him up so easily, so he couldn’t really more than that, then I put them on the scale and let the owner’s eyeballs pop out as they read their 50 pound dog weighs more like 120 pounds. They shake their head as if that can’t possibly be right then I take the dog off the scale and step onto it to prove that in fact it is correct and they look dumbfounded. I smile and shrug as they walk out scratching their heads. It’s not that weird a woman can lift her own body weight with no issue. Maybe it is slightly weird, but not unheard of.

To some I’m a mentor, and teacher. To my dance instructor I am an avid and goofy student with interesting and weird toenail polish creations. To my family I’m the dependable one, the one who always remembers birthdays, calls when she says she will, and sends out appropriate gifts, and assorted goodies to everyone for whatever occasion has arisen. To those who know me only online in the video game we play (World of Warcraft) I’m a guild master and weirdly a “guild mommy” who if you had to put a picture to it weighs about 300 pounds, and has gray hair and a bun, and makes cookies day and night. I dispense advice to those who need it, on whatever they ask me, on anything from their dog to the girl they’ve been chatting with online. This one perhaps makes me laugh the hardest, since I am really no where close to that weight, I have no gray hair (my friend Kathy thinks it’s a weird Polish gene that we just don’t gray until we’re in our 60’s, but my primarily my family just doesn’t go gray until about then) and while I do like to make cookies, and I make a really good cookie, I don’t make them often. I let them believe what they will, there’s no harm in thinking that I suppose. Few would guess I look like I do, or am the way I truly am. I’m ok with that. They know I’m married to the quiet fellow who plays well but says little. Aside from that, they can think I’m a chubby cookie baker. It makes me giggle.

My doctor is utterly confounded by me, saw him again and it’s evident the poor man has no idea what to make of me. I kind of want to pat him on the head and tell him it’s ok. He’s baffled. He gets somewhat frustrated with the fact I don’t have a “normal pain response” I just shrugged one shoulder and told him I was sorry. His brow furrowed. I’m overly analytical when he asks me a question simply because I tend to over think things. “Does this hurt?” he asks as he pushes his thumbs into my glands on my neck and nearly pushes them through to the other side. I nod but add, “Well yes but then again, your thumbs were nearly touching, so I’m going to guess that it would cause anyone discomfort.” I say as I look at him with one raised eyebrow. His brow furrows again. He then takes my right arm and starts moving it about. Now I know he’s looking for joint pain, but that’s the arm the garbage truck ripped off, so well it’s not the best indicator. “Umm…that arm always hurts. You can’t count that one.” He gives me the one raised eyebrow look but there’s a gleam in his eye that says “Ah ha!” I point to it and remind him by showing him the scar, “garbage truck” he looks mildly crestfallen and nods. I shrug said shoulder in response. He repeats the process on the other shoulder and I shake my head while he tells me this shoulder is too muscled to really be a good indicator. I shrug, it’s not like I can get another one at Home Depot or something Doc it’s going to have to do. He makes a small hmm noise as he manipulates my joints. He lifts my arm again, and I grin since it wasn’t long ago he told me I had massive swelling in my arm, I gave him a dry look and brought my arm down to show him that the “swelling” was in fact my bicep. Wide eyed he told me women generally don’t have biceps like that. I looked at the bicep, then at him and told him, “No one told me, too late now.” I take the opportunity to remind him that my bicep isn’t “swelling” and his brow furrows. I couldn’t help it, the comment was dumb. So he goes to his desk and decides that I need a new prescription. Ohh goodie. It’s good for malaria too, so I guess I can go run amok in swamps and be all set. I’ll put that on my to do list.

The woman at the bank calls me her “happiest customer”. Anytime she asks how I am I try to think of something new and amusing to reply to her. “Finer than frog’s hair.” Or “If I was any better I’d have to be twins.” Things like this. She gets a kick out of it and she always flips my little Pug a cookie. She had overheard me talking to “G” in my Jeep while at the drive through. Her nickname is “La grenouille” ( la gron-wee) it means frog since she has a tendency to lay like a little frog, so she calls her Grony. It’s funny, my dog has the same affliction I do. No one knows her name either. She doesn’t care any more than I do. She’ll respond to that. (While I understand the concept of nickname is to “nick” a name and make it shorter, Matt and I tend to give the animals short names then give them these long nicknames for no apparent reason.)

I find the whole thing amusing. There are so few people who actually “get me”. Whatever that implies or entails I’m not really sure. Maybe I’m overly complicated, maybe I’m just overly simple, and I’m really not sure which it is. Someone once called me an enigma wrapped in a mystery. That sounds about right. I am a brat, I know that, but few know how bratty I really am. I like to instigate people to action. I am the fire lighter on feet of those who would prefer not to do anything. I will gladly drag anyone willing and sometimes those who are not on some sort of adventure. Life is too short to let it pass you by. I like to engage Matt in some sort of something fun and or amusing as often as possible, but only if I know he’d enjoy it. I know he has no desire to do things like go shopping or run around a mall or things like this, but I am ready and willing to drag him into the woods to “Come see what I found!!!” and he will begrudgingly come only to find the same coolness in whatever thing I happened to find. If perchance you find a HUGE rock struck by lightning it’s absolutely wild, spend the time to look it over, it’s the coolest.

All in all I guess I’ve found through the amusing moments of my life that perception is generally flawed. Someone told me recently that a person was a lot like me, the next day another did as well. The first was very wrong, the second was weirdly very right. And for the record I do not publicly admit that I squeal with delight at things. That’s simply excited air not squealing. More of a squeak really, more or less, those who do know me aren’t buying this at all and to all of them I am sticking my tongue out at each and every one of you. Sometimes, rarely mind you, people who I least expect to really “get me” really do far more than I’m used to and I have to admit it’s kind of weird for me, since there are so few who truly understand the weirdness that makes up me. I almost find it disconcerting, but they get that too which only weirds me out more I think. Maybe I just let folks believe what they will since it makes them happy. The few that aren’t confounded by me and find my squealing self much less an enigma than they had thought are peeking under the thin veil of who I really am. Maybe I make it difficult to truly know me, I’m not really sure. I’ll have to think about that. Some would disagree; others would agree I’m sure. Maybe it comes down to a general vulnerability, allowing someone in under the veil of who you truly are. Maybe that’s it right there. Another end of blog revelation!