I was on a walk to the pharmacy to pick up some cold medicine and I saw two women breast feeding in the rain and one cat. The cat wasn’t breast feeding and really isn’t relevant to the story, but it helps to set the scene. The sky shifted from light to dark, smokers took shelter under awnings, a car cruised by playing The Gap Band, and all of our clothes were getting progressively more damp due to the sudden swell in precipitation.
In the nicer parts of Manhattan everyone keeps their baby in its trendy stroller and just covers them with the same clear plastic you see used for incubators. Initially, I thought that New York had a surplus of premature births but I guess it’s just to keep the rain off normal healthy infants. Where I live, it’s a different story though. A lot of babies are left to weather the storm while they suckle as exposed as the breast they are clinging on. Tired of stealing glances, I took a prolonged look at one of the women. Her curly dark hair had been flattened by the rain and she was casually holding the baby with one arm against her soaked clothing. While eligible, she definitely would have lost any wet t-shirt contest she entered. She, very obviously, was not concerned with her image and there is something legitimately cool about that.
Looking good is always beneficial but putting too much time and energy into creating an image is a fool’s errand. In high school I once wore an entirely red outfit. And, when I say red, I mean every article of clothing I was wearing was bright crimson. A plain red short sleeved shirt, a pair of red pants and red tennis shoes. The outfit was horrendous. I would have suggested that it looked like I joined a gang but most gang members break up their colors enough to not look like a contestant on Double Dare. I remember getting the whole way to school feeling pretty good about myself but then, the second I entered the door, feeling so embarrassed that I contemplated turning and running the five miles it took to get home. My stomach dropped when I realized that I was going to have to blend in with hundreds of other people when I looked like a heroin chic Kool-Aid Man. I was not the stylish trend setter I had envisioned myself as. I was a red menace.
The lesson I learned is that crafting an image for yourself, instead of having one happen naturally, is the worst idea a person can have. The best case scenario is that everyone else will buy it and only you’ll have to deal with the fact that you are the walking physical manifestation of a lie. This is probably most evident in the tough guy persona. It takes an impressive amount of work to create and then effectively maintain because it is rare that anyone is ever this genuinely terrible. Flashy tough guys can only exist in a world where they aren’t required to do any real work but still have enough money so they can have a gym membership, tan and go shopping for jewelry or designer shirts. They are terrible examples of humanity and most normal people consider them a clownish parody of themselves.
Humans are shallow and, like most animals, we take things at face value. In most cases, females are attracted to the biggest, flashiest, loudest, toughest males. That still sort of rings true in humans but our society has really complicated things. For example, if some drunk alpha male wants to strut around to assert his dominance, he can do that. However, if another person decides to challenge him and stab him to death outside, that isn’t allowed. So all they can do is try to be the flashiest most ludicrously dressed asshole in the room.
Even if you aren’t trying to take someone home, it’s nice to get a second look or be noticed. Why else would we spend so much money on the rags we use to cover our ugly bodies? Why else would women wear high heels or bother putting on makeup? Why else would anybody ever buy a Ferrari? We want to be good enough for a world filled with velvet ropes and weird standards set by the media. We want to be validated and have people take note of us, even if it’s just for a moment or two. That “look at me” mentality isn’t always bad but can sometimes play out in pretty tragic ways.
We all have to ride that line between the people we are and the people we want to be perceived as. Just remember that most people aren’t exactly summed up accurately by their public persona. The most snobby highbrow critic that you know will spend four hours going over the merits of high art, gourmet food and specific music at a party. But, once they get home, they’re going to microwave a hot pocket and eat it while watching VHS quality porn because that person is still human. Nobody can live every moment as an unblemished, self assured and actualized adult. Sometimes we’re all a little sad or a lot gross. We don’t need to primp and isolate ourselves to a point where we live in false reality. Be what you want but don’t deny what you, and the rest of the world, really are. Don’t pretend that your neighborhood is the one that’s normal, your religion is the one that’s right, or your culture is the one that’s best. These are all preferences, not universal truths.
We let falsified subjective realities and carefully fabricated personalities really get to us. As a species, we are ready and willing to take it all so personally when it has everything to do with the other person and nothing to do with us. We point the finger and cry like spoiled children and act like it’s justified. I can’t get on board with that, because we can do better. The next time you’re offended by something, take a moment to consider why before calling for action or speaking out against it. That extra two or three minutes of contemplation might make all the difference as to whether or not you’re an asshole.
You Monsters Are People. 
