Me, Myself and Irony

While nothing would normally work better at getting me out of bed on a lazy Saturday morning than an 8-hour voucher at a swish spa, there are aberrations to even this rule of thumb.

Leaving TOOMA* (pleasantly) surprised and marveling at to how his generally materialistic and surgically-inoperable-from-retail-therapy wifey has a slightly altruistic side to her too.

The feeling is tough to put into words though.

After all, how is it that I get equal gratification in whipping out my wallet to make a big shopping purchase as in visiting the five orphanages and foster homes I have visited in the last 8 days?

While the two alter-egos do not wage a war inside of me, and are not necessarily representative of the characteristic good and evil that co-exist in an individual, they sure are differing, to say the least.

Most people are able to put a finger to what they term ‘philanthropy,’ or the cruder, ‘charity,’

To what is their purpose behind it.

I, for one can’t.

Maybe I’m trying to better myself.

Maybe I’m repaying a debt. An emotional one.

It’s not a financial contribution, so I can safely rule out ‘Tax breaks.’

Maybe I’m trying to impress myself.

Or make my resume look better.

Maybe I want to bring about some social change.

Spiritual practice? Nah – that’s not me! So that’s Strike Two.

Therapeutic – yeah - that's a possibility.

Maybe I feel guilty.

Or maybe I just want to stand and be counted. Whatever be the reasons, one thing is sure - espying the flagship Estee Lauder store in town that puts me into raptures, is equaled by the joy when I hold the warm, outstretched hand of an orphan.

The indescribable, exhaustive painting I draw in my mind of the zillion materialistic things I need to chase, is only paralleled by the joy I experience in seeing the colors come to life in the painstaking canvas that the afflicted-with-polio, seven-year old boy draws. His eyes are fixed on the target – at the wondrous scenery unfolding in front of him, rather than consuming his heart with pity when he looks down at his wasted legs.

And lastly, my dream of writing a column in a glamour glossy will afford me with the same contentment as will writing one on the disadvantaged, the destitute, the physically and intellectually-challenged, the browbeaten, the neglected, and the abandoned.

Dichotomous?

You bet!

Strange?

Maybe.

Credible?

You tell me.