I have this horrible habit of blurring the reality of my past experiences with my perception of how they occurred. I suppose it’s the story-teller in me; I embellish the juicy details, I elongate time when it benefits my need for suspense, and I’ll convienently forget the presence of certain individuals or add those who I wish were part of the plot. My stretching of the truth, my palpable examples that change over time… they slowly take place over months and years. Let’s take the story of when I met Tony Danza on my 10th birthday. There are a slew of events I accurately recall.

I remember Barbara Cahn, my frenemy Michael’s mother, coming up to us and saying that Tony Danza was at the batting cages. I remember eating cheese pizza (I didn’t eat pepperoni until my early teens when someone dared me at a Chuck-E-Cheese with the hefty reward of one gold token). I remember there being friends from school and the JCC present but beside from Michael’s mom, I can’t name specific people (I’m not even sure if Michael was there).

Yet when I tell this story, I mention that Barbara Cahn brought me to Tony Danza and told him that it was my birthday. He asked me how old I was turning and when I said “ten,” he replied with a typically male and wonderfully brief “happy birthday, kid.” If I had to make a bet, I would wager money that this actually happened; yet I have my doubts. I’ve been saying this part of the story for so long that I can’t remember if I made it up once and kept to those lines for consistency until the point that I believed it actually happened. Or maybe Tony Danza said something and I’ve just gotten a few lines misquoted along the way.

It seems I am living proof of truthiness. I create my own reality based on what I think my life has been. My imagination has always gotten me into trouble and it’s hard to tell where the facts end and make believe begins.

But despite my inaccuracy with small details and my need for life to be like a plot from a coming-of-age novel, I find this to be one of my favorite qualities about myself. Everything in my life happens for a reason and daily disasters become a source for symbolism. I see myself as a character in my own life, watching from a third-person perspective. Because of this, I often let life happen to me rather than the other way around. But by no means am I a push-over; I just see myself as a bystander reading the story of my existence. I don’t get too upset over unfortunate events because I know the plot will eventually take a turn for the better. I know love will come when it’s meant to arrive and it will be magical.

I have created a world where fact meets fiction and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.