Notes from the Wrong End of Life
Who Am I?
I was recently asked how I identified, and I’ll be honest, it threw me. I mean, I’ve been living with myself for decades now, and suddenly I’m supposed to have a snappy answer to an existential pop quiz? It led me to think, and that opened a can of philosophical worms.
At first, I thought, “Well, I identify as me.” But then I realized that’s about as helpful as saying water is wet. Who is this “me” anyway? Am I the same person I was five minutes ago, before I had that extra slice of pizza? Am I the person I am before coffee or after? Because let me tell you, those are two very different individuals.
The more I pondered, the more ridiculous it all seemed. I mean, if we’re playing this game, why stop at the basics? Sure, I could say I identify as a human, but where’s the fun in that? Maybe today I identify as a sentient cloud of cosmic dust with a penchant for dad jokes and an irrational fear of garden gnomes. Tomorrow? Who knows! I might wake up feeling like a time-traveling avocado with commitment issues.
And don’t even get me started on how this “identifying” business could spiral out of control. Imagine if we took every fleeting feeling or whimsical thought as a core part of our identity. I’d be changing my driver’s license photo every hour. “Sorry, officer, I know my ID says I’m a 5'10” brunette, but I currently identify as a 7-foot-tall redhead with a tail. It’s just a phase I’m going through.”
The workplace would become absolute chaos. “I can’t possibly do this presentation, boss. I identify as a shy butterfly today.” Or, “I’m going to need Wednesdays off from now on. I’ve recently discovered I identify as part-mermaid, and I need to commune with the sea… or at least my bathtub.”
But here’s where it gets really interesting. All this navel-gazing about identity started me thinking about the whole subjective versus objective truth conundrum. I mean, a mountain lion doesn’t give two hoots about identity — it’s too busy being objectively terrifying and subjectively majestic. And let’s be real, if a rock decided to identify as a lemon, it wouldn’t suddenly become citrusy and zesty. It would still be, well, a rock.
This got me pondering: how much of our identity is objective fact, and how much is just us playing dress-up with our personalities? Sure, objectively, I’m a bipedal mammal with opposable thumbs and a caffeine addiction. But subjectively? That’s where the fun begins.
Some days I identify as a productive member of society; other days I’m more like a sloth with WiFi. But here’s the kicker — no matter how much I might identify as a graceful gazelle, I still trip over my own feet. Objective truth: 1, My subjective self-image: 0.
And let’s not forget the absurdity of taking subjective identity too far. I could identify as a billionaire all I want, but my bank account stubbornly refuses to play along. Objective reality is annoyingly persistent that way.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that trying to pin down identity is like trying to nail jelly to a wall — messy, frustrating, and ultimately pointless. I’m a constantly evolving mixture of experiences, thoughts, and the occasional existential crisis. One minute I’m a responsible adult paying bills, the next I’m giggling at fart jokes. I contain multitudes, as Walt Whitman would say (he’s the guy who wrote poetry about grass, so he clearly knew a thing or two about identity crises).
So, how do I identify? Well, the honest answer is: that it’s complicated. I’m a work in progress, a walking contradiction, a human-shaped bag of mostly water trying to make sense of this mixed-up world. Some days I feel like a confident superhero; other days I’m more like a potato with anxiety.
But you know what? That’s okay. In fact, it’s more than okay — it’s what makes life interesting. If we all had our identities figured out and set in stone, the world would be a pretty boring place. Where’s the fun in knowing exactly who you are all the time?
So, while it’s fun, to try on different hats (or fur suits, no judgment here), at the end of the day, we’re all human beings. Wonderfully weird, constantly changing, occasionally confused human beings. We’re not static rocks or single-minded mountain lions. We’re more like those mood rings from the ’90s — always changing, often unpredictable, and sometimes turning our fingers green.
In the grand cosmic joke of existence, maybe the punchline is that we’re all just improvising, trying to find the balance between who we think we are and who we actually are. And if that’s not a recipe for comedy, I don’t know what is.
So, the next time someone asks me how I identify, I think I’ll just smile and say, “As someone who’s still figuring it out — and enjoying the journey.” Or maybe I’ll tell them I identify as a quantum physicist’s cat, both alive and dead until observed. It really depends on my mood.
After all, in a world where we can choose to identify as anything, sometimes the bravest choice is to just be your authentic, confused, ever-changing self. Even if that self occasionally wishes it could photosynthesize like a plant.
Because in a world where we can identify as anything, why not identify as everything? Just remember, no matter how much you identify as a lemon, you’re still going to make a pretty lousy glass of lemonade if you’re actually a rock. But hey, at least you’ll be the most citrus-inspired paperweight in town!
And just when I thought I had it all figured out, life threw me a curveball. I woke up one morning to find that everyone else had decided to identify as me. My neighbour, my boss, even my dog — all claiming to be the authentic version of yours truly.
Suddenly, I was trapped in a bureaucratic nightmare, trying to prove that I was the original me in a world full of me-impersonators. I found myself filling out endless forms, each asking increasingly absurd questions like “What’s your favourite childhood memory that only the real you would know?” and “If you were a pizza topping, which one would you be and why?”
As I stood in line at the Department of Identity Verification, surrounded by a sea of my own faces, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. Here I was, having spent all this time pondering the nature of identity, only to find myself desperately trying to prove I was uniquely me.
So, how do I identify now? As the only person in a world full of me’s who’s not quite sure if he’s actually himself. And you know what? That’s perfectly fine. After all, in a Kafkaesque world, sometimes the only sane response is to embrace the absurdity and go with the flow.
Who knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up as a giant insect. At least then I’ll have a rock-solid identity — until, of course, other cockroaches start claiming they’re me…
