Friday, July 29, 2011
If there was one common rule
that I was taught by all of my English professors, it was to write about what you know. So naturally, I'm going to write about Bigfoot.
Now, I know what you're thinking, I am about to ignore years of wisdom and experience, by recklessly addressing something I know nothing about, but you'd be wrong. Bigfoot and I go way back.
When I was little, Bigfoot made several visits to me: under my bed, in my closet, outside my window, while I was camping, and of course in my dreams. You might say, he had a little bit of an obsession.
His presence was a constant concern for me. When I was outside, his gleaming yellow eyes were watching me from the bushes. When I was inside, his long claws scratched across my bedroom window, and don't even get me started on Harry and the Hendersons (I'm still terrified of John Lithgow).
His existence was a puzzle to me. Why was he called Bigfoot? It wasn't like he only had one giant foot that he hobbled around on. He should be called Bigfeet, that would make sense. Why was he named after his most defining characteristic? What if we did that with everyone? Would people walk around with names like Bigears, Fatface, or Saggybottom? What would my name be? Bighead? Bigmouth? . . It was enough to drive a kid crazy.
There was no doubt in my mind that Bigfoot would eventually swallow me whole. It didn't matter that no one believed me and no one could see him, he was real to me.
As I got older, Bigfoot grew tired of me. He stopped showing up at my window and under my bed. I thought he'd left for good, until I realized he'd changed his look. He still operates with fear and I'm still afraid he'll swallow me whole, but this time he'll do it with insecurities. You see, that's the funny thing about Bigfoot . . . he's a lot more common than you think.