It’s All About Me, Myself and Oy

The snowless early December landscape was beckoning me to take a bike ride. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen and the temperature was nearly 50.

Just then I heard a voice.

“Wait a minute. Are you crazy? There’s frost in the shady areas, you know. What if you crash and are laid up just as snow and ice season arrives?”

It wasn’t Catherine, who would gladly let me get out of her way for a little while. It was me. Well, the other part of me – my conscience.

“Well, what’s not safe about a short ride? I’ve put on more than 700 miles this year without an incident,” I replied. I was arguing with myself again, something that has intensified this year.

It’s not that I need to talk to someone. Heck, I seldom call anyone and usually don’t even answer the phone. I have some Norwegian bachelor farmer relatives as proof that it runs in the family. I talk to Catherine a lot, mostly listening, although even that has been a point of numerous discussions. But with few interactions with others these days, I’ve been talking with myself more. At church we call that “taking a moment for personal reflection.”

I went for the bike ride and arrived home unscathed.

“See? I can ride safely,” I told myself. There was no reply.

I think my five senses go through a conscience vetting process before any of them notifies me of something, such as a noise. I can be reading intently when I suddenly hear the cats fighting over the same warm spot on the couch. But I only notice it because my conscience interrupted me. Probably just to spite me since I never do anything about the cats having a spat.

I usually have a task list. If I don’t write it down, my conscience messes with me.

“Hey, weren’t you going to buy softener salt? You said so earlier today.”

“Look, I know I need softener salt. Stop reminding me or I’m gonna replace you with Alexa.”

“Oh, right. Catherine and I aren’t good enough at reminding you of your responsibilities? Now you gotta have a computerized voice tell you? Well, you need a good talking to, Mr. Johnson, and I’m just the one to do it. Remember, I’m the smarter part of you and I have a vested interest in our survival. We aren’t getting any younger, you know. And by the way, what’s with all this snacking you’ve been doing lately? You used to go to the Y. Now you just sit and look at your iPad. You also need a haircut and you haven’t bought Catherine a Christmas gift yet.”

I was getting annoyed with this haranguing, even though much of it was true.

“I can’t go to the Y. It’s closed because of COVID. And you! You get to just sit there in my head, telling me what to do. If I make a mistake, you criticize me. That’s not your job. That’s what everyone else does. You’re supposed to be on my side. You’re probably the one who decides what I dream at night, too. Well, let me tell you, mister, they haven’t been very memorable lately. In fact, I don’t remember any of them.”

“You get the dreams you deserve. Remember when you used to dream of the Vikings winning the Super Bowl? Heck, you don’t even watch the Vikings anymore.”

“Yeah, but I’m a lot happier. You probably aren’t, though, since you love chastising me for wasting a nice afternoon watching them.”

“Sure, but . . .”

“Don’t sherbet me! Times are crazy enough without you telling me what to do for everything. You’re supposed to be my guide through life, not my seventh grade math teacher. Miss Benson did call me a mind reader once, though, when I accidentally looked at someone else’s work. I think she meant that in a bad way.”

I will admit that there’s one thing my conscience has helped me with lately, just not in a friendly way.

“Hey, doughhead, you forgot to put your mask on again before entering the store! Are you crazy? I know you’d like to kill me but, please, not by getting COVID.”

“Well, why didn’t you remind me?” I sighed and stomped back to my car at the far end of the parking lot. I knew it was the right thing to do but the way he said it was unnecessary.

One day I tried to have a discussion with myself about something important like another use for duct tape. No answer. Later, when I was able to contact him, I let him have it.

“Where were you? You’re me, you know. You’ve gone missing a lot, lately. You’re supposed to be available 24 hours.”

“Not in a row. I need to do other stuff.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been thinking about our future. You need to do more. Your main project now is pre-recording church services for Zoom presentations. That and writing that silly column for the paper. I’m making a list of other useful things you can do.”

“Well, I can’t do a lot during the pandemic. Plus, I have lists that Catherine tells me I forgot about.”

The discussion stopped. It was time for dinner and we were both hungry.

Tomorrow I think I’ll get a haircut and look for a Christmas gift for Catherine.