Snapshots: My Alter Ego

Curtailed commentary on current theme: My Alter Ego.



Print Edition: March 19, 2014

Illustrations by Anthony Biondi

Don’t underestimate me

In contrast to my innocence, I can really be quite “the rebel.” So much to the point where I see it in my best interest to ensure the public does NOT know about my bad-ass stories.

Though I am petite and look fragile, I’m a ninja. Usually when I tell someone I am training in Tae Kwon Do and kick-boxing the most common reaction I get (and it’s usually from those of the male species) is that I look weak or that they can beat me in a fight.

But those comments cause me to go into beast mode. Usually my attitude portrays an angry response like “come at me bro!” or “just because I’m small doesn’t mean I don’t have the ability to kick your ass!”

But when beast mode has calmed down, I know there is no need for me to argue or prove myself. For I have the knowledge that with one of my super-fly kicks to where it hurts mosts, it is K.O. for that fella.

Bruce Lee was small, and no one messed with him.



Put-together — on the inside

I own three hair straighteners, two curling irons, a boat-load of make-up, and at least 20 pairs of shoes ranging from heeled boots to flats to runners.

But I am not a fashionista. I don’t even know how to french-braid my hair, or how to properly apply anything other than mascara.

The truth is my alter ego is that inner woman who goes shopping and thinks, “curling my hair with a straight iron will be no problem at all.”


Every morning I sleep in and leave just enough time to shower and throw my wet hair up in a bun, no brushing required. I rarely apply make-up, and I pick my clothes based on the weather.

Of course, my alter ego is just dying to wear that pair of stilettos to school, or successfully curl her hair with a flat iron.

But the most important part of my morning will never be heels or hair. It is coffee.



Captain Canuck

I could imagine it — myself dressed in tights, standing atop a tall building, overlooking a city. From there I could hear the plight of those in need of help.

I’d jump from the building, my cape blowing in the wind behind me, and fly from rooftop to rooftop.

I would protect the innocent, stop the bad guys, rescue the occasional cat from a tree, and walk the elderly across the street.

Call me — Captain Canuck, Major Maple Leaf, or something patriotic like Captain America is to the USA.

The red and white costume would be a symbol of justice and Canadian nationalism. A great adventure. I could spout off catchphrases like, “up, up, and away, eh!” and apologize for stopping the bad guys — even though I wouldn’t really be sorry.

I would be a beacon of hope for humanity.

But sadly, I have no superpowers, and I don’t look good in tights.



I could be dancin’

I have a question.

Why isn’t it acceptable to dance in public?

You see: 90 per cent of the time, I’m listening to music, and at the very least I’ll bob my head along to the beat.

I get odd looks on the bus or while walking down a hallway, especially when whatever song I’m listening to elicits a specific response — like a smile.

But not just any smile; it’s the broadest, goofiest smile you could ever imagine. In fact, it’s more than a smile. It’s a self-satisfied grin. I could be dancing. But I’m confined to chronically bob my head or tap my feet.

This past week as I was walking into the library and listening to music, Hall & Oates’ “Rich Girl” started playing. My walk gradually became more of a saunter, and my head started moving. You know, that back-and-forth motion you get when you’re playing or listening to music you get lost in. Yeah — that one.

So, four steps into the library and a passerby looks at me with a face that seems to say “get out.”

Well, you know what, passerby? I will not get out. I’ll just keep tappin’ that foot and bobbin’ that head.


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