the selfless station and household idols

So I was scrounging around for something to write when a late-night conversation with my sister just clicked some things together for me - I knew there was a reason I write so late at night (also, I believe my muse works the graveshift).

Have you ever seen those guys that drive around in their low-rider cars with the shiny spinners? They're the same ones that never take off their designer sunglasses, even when it seems frightfully like a safety hazard; the ones that drive around with their music so loud that everyone within a five-mile radius can also enjoy it; the ones that drape their arm, in what must be a horribly uncomfortable position, over the steering wheel so that they can conveniently flex their triceps; the ones that roll down all the windows, not for a coolness sake but for the sake of having their coolness noted from all angles.

I am one of those guys.

No, I am not a hermaphrodite, but in a lot of ways I feel just as split down the middle. I want to be one person, but I act another, and in my case it is, shamefully, the part of a ghetto cruiser.

So often I am reminded of just how self-centered I am but today the reminder felt more like a sucker punch to the gut. I would like to skip the embarrassing details, so I will cut this long story short and only say that, in one sickening moment, I reminded myself of one those guys at whom I scowl so heavily and judge so harshly.

We all have our household idols. And one of the little devils I spit-polish and lovingly and unknowingly  place on the mantel of my heart is vanity. In my mind's eye my little idol doesn't so much resemble the cliche, and oh so anotomically challenged, Krishna statues as it does the little stackable Russian dolls - the ones that begin with the large bowling pin shaped dolls and, about 5,000 dolls later, end with a microscopic little peanut. For me, I can only see a few dolls into it, maybe to a small doll called Insecurity but I am sure she hides within her a whole host of others that I cannot even begin to name.

Earlier this evening my little sister encouragingly mentioned how selfless I seemed to have become, but I laughed. She hasn't met Joey, my ghetto-cruising-alter-ego. You see, my train has not arrived at the selfless station, I am stalled at the me-myself-and-I station, sipping wine and staring at myself in a mirror.