ME AND BOBBI©
by George Wilkerson
Tee Vee Time
Ed. Note: Bobbi, George, is sharing an internal conversation with us, and in effect, outting herself to the world. We think you'll find her (and his) point of view interesting
She's there, in the mirror, primping again.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"You know very well what I'm doing," she says. "You know
everything I do."
She's right, of course, but sometimes she has a mind of her own. Just
because I know what she's doing doesn't mean I can tell her what to do.
"All right," I say, admitting defeat once more. "I'll
wait."
Bobbi
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She continues the primping, adjusting, teasing, and I turn my attention
to the television. There's a kind of irony, I think, that some of us refer
to ourselves as TV's. Apart from the obvious transposition of the letters
of a word, there's an element of the television in each of us. A TV requires
a viewer, someone to sit and watch while the TV provides the entertainment.
And that's what I often do. Bobbi entertains me and I sit and watch. Like
right now. She smiles and winks at the thought. And I have to wonder if
she isn't just trying to entertain me even now.
She stops the primping and looks me straight in the eye. "You know
what you're problem is," she says.
"No.." I reply. "Tell me."
"You think too much. You do much better when you let go of thinking
and just start enjoying. Look at me. I don't waste my time thinking. I'm
going out tonight and I'm going to have some fun. And I'm not going to
think about it at all."
"You mean 'we're' going out," I say. "Don't you?"
She shrugs. "Maybe." Running a brush through her hair she
surveys the results. "Or maybe I'll just leave you at home."
I grin. "Impossible," I say aloud. "And besides, you
need me; we're like siamese twins; we're attached at the..."
She raises her hand. "Definitely not there," she says. "At
the heart. That's the attachment."
I shake my head. "At the brain," I say. "Or maybe at
the gut level."
George |
She grabs her purse and turns off the TV. "There you go again.
I really do wish you'd give that up."
I nod. "Yes...well, you're right, I suppose. Maybe that's why I
have you. I do the thinking; you do the feeling."
We step outside, open the car door, and climb into the driver's seat.
"And who's driving," she asks.
"You drive," I say. "I'm taking the night off."
She flips down the visor, looks up at herself in the mirror, and lifts
a strand of hair away from her face. "You go girl," she says.
"You go girl," I say.
And so we do.
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