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When I was a toddler I had a cousin (haven’t seen her for some time now) who used to pretend to be something more than her own family. At least I thought she was always trying to pass for something that she wasn’t. Back then I did despise that in her, being so snobbish as I was, or am, and I saw that as a kind of youthful rebellion, something which has always inspired only contempt in me.

Nevertheless, some weeks ago I was at a market and as I proceeded to checkout there was a woman with a moustache ahead of me in the line, and when she was going to pay her credit card was not authorized, and she kept saying “Why?” and ordering the attendant to try again and again. Why? I’ll tell you why! Your card is over it’s limit, that’s why. I’m really not someone who can complain about someone else not having enough money, but one’s got to admit the situation when it happens!

Well, but just as I was insulting her in my mind, I began to wonder…

And I found out that, despite all my snobbishness, all my self-righteous sense of reason, all my pride, I was not so very different from her at all. Not that I ever tried again a credit card (and obviously I did), not that I have a moustache too, not that I am probably as poor as she is. I don’t know what it was, exactly, but I just kept wondering how much I did too wish to ignore my situation and pretend to be something more than I am, to tell myself a story-of-me more glamorous than it could be.

Latter my father was telling that he has always been brave, and I thought to myself “brave or a bully”? Isn’t it funny? Me, the nerd, the feeble intellectual who despised the tough guys at the school who had no brains, the ultimate non-bully, have a bully father. And, what’s more, I had never seen it before, no matter how obvious it was.

Because, I guess, we are all a bit Ludmilla. I, for one, accept that I am, a bit…

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