I love the way that superheroes remain unrecognized, even by their nearest and dearest, despite nearly always having camouflaged getups as thin as a politician’s commitment. Glasses on a person who doesn’t usually wear glasses: so much coverage! A little mask with big eyeholes in it…yeah, that’ll fool Mom when she looks me straight in the face! At least in more of the fairytales there’s a serious enough literal transformation that I can believe it would confound a reasonable amount of investigative zeal. I mean, I can imagine that Beauty’s pal the Beast could conceivably be tough for most people to spot as his former princely persona, at least more so than a cape and a staggeringly revealing, body-conforming spandex super-suit would tend to do.
When I become a superhero, and, of course, I will, eventually—it kind of seems like few people on earth don’t at some point fall into a vat of toxic waste and vow revenge on those who allowed it to happen, if you read at all these days—I plan to be so well hidden in my new identity that even you people who have been meeting me here in Bloglandia for four-plus years won’t flinch. Meanwhile, you’ll probably be too distracted by the latest zombie apocalypse or alien invasion (also well documented in current entertaining literature and film) to notice I’ve changed anyhow.
More likely, though, is that the whole hidden-in-plain-sight thing is much closer to reality than I like to think. It’s amazing to consider how many large-looming realities I am capable of missing or simply convincing myself don’t exist because I’m too small-thinking to accept them as present. I don’t like to believe I was wrong, so I convince myself the other person is the one at fault. I don’t want to believe that someone I’ve liked and admired is terribly flawed, so I keep up the idealized image in my mind, pretending that he doesn’t have a detectable alcohol problem or she hasn’t been the obvious only person with access to the accounts that have consistently failed to remain in balance. Might as well be wearing neon signs that say Hey! Lookee here!! Big PROBLEM!!!, and wearing clown costumes.
I still like superhero stories and fabulations and fairytales. I enjoy them immensely. But there is a little part of me that always gets as grouchy as the Beast that they’re so patently improbable, what with all of the costumes that couldn’t fool a baby seeming to deceive the world at large for great lengths of time. Mostly because I know I can’t count myself in the baby’s camp when it comes to such discernment. Fool me twice—a thousand times—shame on me. Grrr!