LIKE ALL of us, I have a Good Me and a Bad Me. Good Me does the laundry, changes the sheets on the bed, pays the bills on time and eats oatmeal for breakfast. Bad Me lets dirty clothes pile up on the closet floor, says “Screw the bills, I’ll pay the late fee,” eats a slice of pizza an hour before dinner just because I’m at Whole Foods (they have great pizza) and shouts vile curse words into the phone after the robot says, “This call may be recorded for quality assurance.” And while we’re on the subject, how is it that every single business you call says you should, “Listen carefully as our menu has recently changed”?
Anyway, you get the point: we’re either good or bad. Devil or Angel. (BTW, great song recorded by the Clovers in 1955.) I have always prayed the Bad Me would die so I could be healthier, tolerate stupidity in others and fit into those black corduroy jeans that Good Me bought. I’ve tried starving her to death but because that never lasts more than a day or two, she survives, sneaking back in while I’m sleeping.
This morning, after seeing a bad number on the scale and surveying the mess in my closet, I decided that since killing her off hasn’t worked I will simply send Bad Me on a long vacation. She’s going somewhere nice—not sure yet where—until New Year’s Day, 2019. This will prevent me from getting drunk on New Year’s Eve at that party my husband and I are attending; in fact it will ensure that we actually attend. Bad Me would definitely blow it off at the last minute, claiming a headache.
I’ll pack for her today. She’s taking all the chocolate, the frozen waffles and the Italian white bean salad she scarfs down with such abandon. And for sure that bottle of Kahlua. I think we’ll both be happier.
Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.