You Look Like Tim Robbins

Harmless as they may seem, those words have sent my poor, fragile ego into a wicked tailspin yesterday. My self-esteem was disemboweled, feasted on by all the heartbroken women I casually walked away from as a teen. My self image has been shredded, my bubble burst.

5 words is all it took.

I never thought of myself as a visual stunner, but then again I never really had any significant trouble with the ladies. So I thought I had something going on. This, apparently, over-inflated opinion of myself was reinforced with the occasional comparison to George Clooney on my tan days, Mel Gibson on my angry days, even the occasional Antonio Banderas on my long-hair days.

Understandably, I liked those comparisons. They gave my ego the gentle coddling it craved to get through the day, purring the whole way. I ran around thinking my chin could protect our precious borders. All I needed was a cape and a sexually ambiguous sidekick.

But, someone had to mention Tim. And it all crubled away. Do I resemble a dough-faced, beady eyed fifty year old? C’mon. Nothing against big Tim. He’s not a terrible-looking guy. He’s just not a good looking one. Where does that leave me?

Doubled over in pain, whincing as I type.

Or worse—the agony—maybe I’ve been living a sweet lie. What was I doing all those years thinking I was such a catch? Walking around winking, finger snapping and grinning? Saying “Hey Baby.” Exposing the chest hair. Productizing the do.

Could I not back up my game?

Is there a lesson here? Of course there is, my friends. If you take too much stock in your own image, it will eventually crash. I don’t want you to experience Black Monday like I did.

You’re welcome.