Of Mice and Men

I go to my fathers, in whose mighty company I shall not now feel ashamed. - Theoden, King of Rohan, his next-to-final words.
It wouldn't sound strange, perhaps, to a friend who knew me really, really well, but I imagine most people who'd met me casually would be surprised to learn that I identify with soldiers, and that I have a taste for movies about pitched battles.

The man in the bicycle shop I found this weekend might believe me, though. He was a small man himself, built as light and fleet as a dove. Or something thinner - a sparrow, perhaps, but a sparrow made of steel. I liked him right away, especially after he took seriously my assertion that I wanted to build my own bike rather than have them do it. His eyes widened a little and his manner changed when I started talking about horizontal dropouts and bottom brackets and toe overlap, but he hadn't been patronizing even before that, and that is a rarity in a bike shop owner/mechanic. Unfortunately. You girl-bikers will be nodding your heads now.

Are we so used to taking the measure of a person based on their exterior dimensions that we fail to see what real strength looks like when it stands in front of us, no matter how small or tall the container? Yes and yes. And yet, it sometimes shines out so hard from a face that it's a wonder we aren't blinded in the light of it.

I see it in my own eyes in the mirror, every damn day, and every damn day I encounter the people who misjudge it, or gloss over it, or just have their eyes closed to it.

I've been thinking a lot about perception, having recently realized just how generically someone was viewing me: as an interchangeable girl. I am shocked, actually. It seems impossible that anyone, having been that close to me on more than one occasion, could look at me and not at least catch a glimpse of what's behind the eyes.

I've said it before and I'll say it again; the container I inhabit is the least interesting part of me, so I often assume it's the least noticeable. I barely even feel its presence, despite my love for it as a suitable home and my consistent efforts to treat it as well as I can manage.

In case you're wondering (or peering between these lines), I think I'm over the blonde. All of a sudden. Because, all of a sudden, I see that he doesn't see me.
And I think that's the unforgivable sin.

PS. So I spent some time with my boyfriend instead. His name is Nikon, and he - despite being a machine and a lens rather than a being of flesh and biology - seems to understand me. He always knows just what I want to say, and takes seriously his role of helping me in that endeavor. (Click on any pic to see it full-sized.)

Later...Note to self: Do not make grand pronouncement about being magnificently over da blonde in Dietrichesque fashion and then watch movie starring actor who looks just like him. Dumbass.