Under the Arch

 I was doing a lecture yesterday broadcast out of Scotland when I noticed it. And once I'd seen it I simply couldn't look away. Let me preface this by saying that I'm not someone who spends a lot of time in front of a mirror, I don't actively avoid them but I'm not fixated by them either. I have a friend who can't walk by a mirror without stopping, even for a half step, to check himself out. I'm not that guy, I make fun of that guy.

Even so, I do recognize myself in a mirror and have gotten a little more used to seeing myself around because I spent lots of time on zoom, and go to meetings, and, teams, all of which have my image on the screen somewhere. So, yesterday about ten minutes before the end, I noticed it. There was something wrong with my face. Something that I'd never noticed before. I brushed aside my observation so I could finish what I was doing and once done, I took time to really notice.

My left eyebrow is permanently arched. I couldn't get it down even after a concerted effort. I couldn't feel it being raised, but there it was, in front of me, raised. One half of my face looked like I was watching a Biden speech the other looked like I'd just been told that Trump was coming for dinner. I got over it, so what, and then went on to my next meeting.

Later I was thinking about my eyebrow, deep, ponderous eyebrow thoughts. I  realized that arched eyebrow built a little bit of my childhood and, more than that, made its way into my adult life. When I was young my parents were told by one of my teachers that I had the 'gift of the gab' in response to their question about how I could be so, very, incredibly, verbal about everything, apparently, I was a bit exhausting.

My mother took to responding to how I arranged by day into tightly packed stories that I was eager to tell, with the question about the hero of my story, (me), by saying, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

The answer wanted was nothing, nobody, and certainly not the hero of any story.

This tactic worked, I stopped bringing home stories and began coming home to grunt out news of my day. Well, I quieter. I preferred that to facing questions as to my place in my own universe.

Growing up and into a life of training and lecturing, I rely heavily on the 'gift of the gab' and the stories that I have to tell. And no one has asked me for many years the question, "Who do you think you are?"

And it's a pity because now I have the answer. "Why, I'm Dave Hingsburger, pleased to meet you."