Tuesday, 07 December 2004 | Trickster

I can convince myself of almost anything, at least for a moment. If I'm late, I can pretend it's an hour earlier. But when that moment of relief passes and I realize it's not true, I feel even worse, because then, not only am I late, I'm also disappointed.

It was probably a terrible thing to do, but when I was ten, my friend Angie and I pretended we were deaf. We knew the alphabet in sign language and could successfully communicate with our hands, albeit slowly, one l-e-t-t-e-r at a time. One afternoon, at a busy riverside park, we decided to fake other signs—made-up signs that meant nothing but looked more advanced—knowing that we would appear to be handicapped. We didn't do it to take advantage or make fun of anyone, but to displace ourselves, and to convince strangers that we were exceptional. I remember how it felt to receive stealthy glances that, assuming we were convincing, might've been laced with undeserved pity. I momentarily believed the scenario was real.

Sometimes I do it on purpose (assume a role in my head), and other times my imagination seems to have its own agenda. Either way, I usually kind of like it, because it surprises me with a new perspective, one that I may not have considered before. Also, it's good for boredom.

Shopping for Hanukkah wrapping paper with Sarah yesterday—asking clerks whether the store carries it, walking around with a Menorah-printed tube under my arm—I briefly wondered if people were secretly classifying me, despite the fact that being Jewish is entirely normal in this town, and the fact that I don't look the least bit Jewish. I felt oddly offended when a store had no Hanukkah paper (anti-Semites!) and even felt slightly paranoid when someone noticed that I might be on the pre-Christmas team. I can't figure out why, though. My brain is apparently so good at this game that it baffles even me.