Cat-tivia

The terrible thing about possessing self-awareness is the burden of realizing that your mannerisms and habits are surely the object of someone else's mockery or pity.  Maybe not even you, specifically, but you as a composite character along with all the other people who are similar to you.  Most of us like to flatter ourselves that we, as individuals, occupy any mental real estate in the minds of people outside our immediate orbit, but that's simply not true.  That being said, sometimes you just know that you, or the composite you, are a target.  It's an awful experience to be the recipient of jeers based on things largely or entirely outside of your control:  your socioeconomic status, academic abilities, physical characteristics, to say nothing of race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, etc.  It is heinous to make value judgements about a person based on those kinds of characteristics, let's be perfectly clear about that.  Don't be a racist, don't be a bigot, duh.

However, it can be strangely exhilarating to be the butt of someone's jokes for choices that are entirely yours to make:  your interests, statements you make, sartorial or lifestyle choices, luxury items you purchase.  I know I'm moving up in the world because the things that I assume people think about composite me have shifted from the former category to the latter.  As a grown-ass, comfortably middle class adult, I'm in control of most aspects of my life.

In high school, disfiguring acne made me the very real, not at all imagined, target of verbal abuse by hot people with otherwise low self esteem.  Living in a household with two active smokers made me a smelly kid.  Thanks to pedagogical practices that are probably now illegal, I regularly had crumpled up exams thrown at my head in AP History for wrecking the curve.  I learned then the power of making deliberately weird choices to distract from the unfortunate things I couldn't control.  In 10th grade, I received a literal ticket from the fashion police for wearing my jeans inside out, among other things:

         Yes of course I saved it, no I have no recollection what "jeckles" are. 

Today, nearly 20 years after receiving that ticket, I realize I'm too old care about what other people think.  When you grow up as an only child, introverted and very much inside your own head, you give lots of fucks about what other people might think.  By the time you realize that was a colossal waste of fucks because most people aren't thinking anything at all, you have no fucks left to give.  But then, mercifully, you are weightless.  The sense of lightness and freedom is almost more than you can bear!

It is then that you can look at yourself with a detached, ironic perspective and realize how insufferable and self-indulgent you are becoming.  You reflect on your choices and habits, and realize what a place of privilege you occupy, with your head up your own ass.  Except you don't feel bad about it, because you spent so much time worrying so much about what other people thought of you that you feel that you've paid your dues.  Now you revel in all the ways your deliberate choices might make you a caricature, as you carry your New Yorker tote bag into Aldi. 

You often catch a glimpse of yourself becoming the asshole you always wanted to be, and you laugh at your great fortune.  You discuss, without a hint of irony, the terroir of a piece of single origin dark chocolate.  You casually mention the sailboat you used to own.  You provide your rescue dog with a prescription SSRI.  You treat your cat's digestive system as well as Jamie Lee Curtis treats her own.

It's only those last two that I actually feel a little weird about.  Charlie is the mistake that keeps on taking, as far as life choices are concerned.  I don't want to harm him, and we certainly don't mistreat him, but if life were like Photoshop, I would definitely like to delete his layer and move on like he never existed.  We only medicate him so that he doesn't injure himself or us with his erratic behavior. 

Ajax, on the other hand, is the OG pet of our family.  He's surly yet loving; he's the good one who actually obeys most of the rules.  He deserves nothing but the best.  As long as the best doesn't cost hundreds of dollars.  For a couple months, he was intermittently blowing up the litter box with unspeakable diarrhea, so we finally took him to the vet.  We waited longer than we should have, because we are cheap but also merciful.   Historically, going to the vet has been Ajax's least favorite activity on earth.  To our surprise and relief, he behaved like a champ and $300 later, the vet could find no problems on his bloodwork or physical exam.  The vet recommended either a $400 abdominal ultrasound or some $30 probiotics mixed into his food.  Which one do you think we chose?

Ajax can't decide if he's living in an Activia commercial or a Fancy Feast one, but he's dining like a Rockefeller and pooping like a Curtis now.  Also, we only use that cut glass bowl because at the time all the other normal bowls were in the dishwasher, and full disclosure, I found it being used as an ash tray when cleaning out my dead dad's apartment so don't get all, "Oh, we fancy" on me about it.