I wonder if I could fake a heart attack?

(August 10, 2000)

I hold Carol's pile of photos and gaze wearily at the one on top. It's even more blurred and distant than the eleventy-thousand photos I've already tried to decipher. My eyes swim. My cheeks are numb from smiling and saying, "wow." My phone rings for the fifth time in forty-five minutes and I steal a peek at the Caller ID to see if maybe it's the company president calling for a software emergency. Please let there be an emergency. It's not. My boss tromps past my office. Please come in and ask me for some report or something. (He doesn't). And Carol keeps up a steady narrative as I flip from one photo to the next. All that's missing is an electronic "beep" and this experience would mirror a dysfunctional Erma Bombeckian version of those droning educational slide shows from grammar school.

"That's a dolphin-or no-yes, see, you can just make out the fin there, and that's Gerald's foot reflected in the glass. We got him those sneakers for the trip."

(beep)

"There are giraffes behind those trees. They were amazing."

(beep)

"Next to that rock in the water, see that other rock? No this one, the grayer one-that's a hippo sticking his nose out."

(beep)

"Oh, neat!" I gurgle. I flip over the last photo of the packet. Carol pulls out another packet, saying, "�and these are from SeaWorld." I want to stick my Pilot Dr. Grip pen in my eye.

It's recently been brought to my attention by one of my very dear friends (you know who you are) that I'm not as�let's say sensitive to the feelings of others as perhaps I could be. I don't share in the celebration with quite enough gusto.

I take an observation like this kinda seriously. We all strive to be better people, and if someone is telling me I have character flaws (and who among us can claim flawlessness) I'll endeavor to step outside myself and take a look.

Do I see an obnoxious self-centered Gen Xer?

Is this chubby green-eyed honey blonde an evil misanthrope?

Is there a way to get through the day without faking enthusiasm?

So when Carol asked, "Ya wanna see my Flarider pitchis?" (that's "Florida pictures" for those of you who don't speak Bostish) I holstered the pistol that would've fired naturally. I took an interest. I said, "Sure!"

As Jim Carrey once said, the problem with real life is there's no danger music. There's also no "fast forward" button.