Sometimes I feel like a boy. It usually happens in retrospect, when I go back and think about a short interval of time when I got really into something.
Today it happened to be an exciting conversation about photos at work. One of the stock photo sites I like added a new super-useful feature, finally catching up with the rest of its competitors. I was chatting with a customer service rep, getting the details and sharing my excitement with her, when suddenly I was pulled away by another project.
When I came back later at a quieter time , I noticed the rep gone. I wondered what she thought for those few moments between the time she understood I wasn’t there anymore and right before she closed the window. I scanned through the conversation, attempting to process my palpable excitement through her sober tone, and suddenly, there I was, 5 years old again, sitting on my bed, thinking about my Halloween costume.
I was going to be a harlequin. “They’re like clowns; they’re really fun!” my mom had said. I really hated that costume. The red plastic nose was ridiculous. As I sat on my bed concentrating on how much I disliked the idea of being stuffed in a costume at the amusement of my aunts and uncles, I noticed the resemblance of the nose to the perfectly round, shiny red knob of my modern-style desk drawer.
I really felt faceless then, imagining myself lost in the folds of the harlequin, like a boy donning a man’s suit to impress his mother.