When I was single I recall many people thinking of me as a Carrie Bradshaw wannabe. Assuming I was dating like a mofo, buying lots of shoes, and opining about my fantastic NYC life. To others I represented the other extreme: the Bridget Jones. A sad and lonely spinster, eating pints of Haagen Daas and spending New Years Eve alone at home with my pets. My reality was somewhere between those two, to the extent that you can summarize your life in Hollywood archetypes.
It is striking how quickly the external perception shifted once I got married, moved to the burbs and became a Mom. Now many people just ask me how the baby and kids are. It’s understandable given that I post lots of pictures of them on social media. It’s safe small talk, and let’s face it most people are allergic to intelligent conversation. But I never get used to it. In my mind, I’m the same old Col who likes to talk about the stuff of culture: Jonathan Franzen’s latest tome, Kanye’s latest Tweets, and what a scary maniac Donald Trump is.
People will always think what they want to think, see what they want to see. And in a crazy complex world, stereotypes are easy and help us all save time. But when you are the subject of them it can feel so bizarre and disorienting. So while maybe I’m supposed to be into Jack Johnson, in my mind’s eye, my walk on music is and will always be Pharoah Monch’s “Simon Says.”