Popeye

Growing up my mantra was always like Popeye. “I am what I am.” As much as that instilled an inner confidence whenever I walked into a room, it has landed me on the “shit list” of many people.

I’ve gotten looks of disgust from even those closest to me, which I am sure were followed by words of the same.

I never cared.

I Popeye’d my way because I liked who I was, and “fuck em” if they don’t.

I dress the way I choose to dress.

I listen to music that I choose and read books in the same vein.

I am loud, I say inappropriate things which are meant to bring smiles, I am loyal to what I choose to be loyal to and I spend time with who I want to spend time with.

Most days I wear jeans, sneakers and a decent shirt.

I am a proud Jew, a Zionist, a Mets fan. I am a New Yorker who treats everyone with respect unless they cross me. Then I just ignore them.

I have made a lot of mistakes, I have a lot of scars, I have slipped on ice and I have stubbed my toe, more times than I can recall.

I have cast aside my wants for the needs of my loved ones, ignored my dreams, stepped away from kisses and stayed home when everyone traveled.

I have been selfless because I prefer to give rather than accept. I have had anxiety, depression, open heart surgery, faced abandonment and condemnation. I have survived and I have walked with an inner pride because I have never wavered from my true self.

I am what I am, what else can I be?

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