Who am I?

In terms of Broadway's bombastic musicals, of which there are myriad, my favorite is Cameron Mackintosh's "Les Miserables." To its credit, it is not based on a movie. It is based on a real event, the pesky French Revolution, as interpreted by Victor Hugo in his seminal novel of the same name. So at least it has that going for it. Another thing it has going for it is one of its least bombastic songs, "Who Am I?" This song is belted by the protagonist, Jean Valjean, as he comes to grips with who he truly is, as he asks, "Who am I?"

I've been asking myself that same question of late, "Who am I?" What deep existential crisis is causing me to ponder this question? What event occurred that has caused me to look deeply into my soul? Well, remember who is writing this and I don't think you'll be surprised by what's driving this.

So what is it then, you ask? What has led to this navel gazing (and for those of you have had the misfortune of seeing me sans shirt you know that there is ample opportunity for navel gazing)? Quite simply, I've had a pang for something that has me questioning if I am ready to retire.

I'm beginning to think that I'm ready to move to Del Boca Vista.

If I do that, it seems only appropriate that I become the Republican committee chair for the community.

If I do that, I should be driving the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and her widow friends at Del Boca Vista to the 430PM buffet because 500PM is entirely too late for dinner.

If I do that, I feel like I should be watching Fox News and agreeing with that wee man boy huckster, Sean Hannity.

I'm feeling all these frightening things because of that pang I mentioned earlier. That pang, which I blame entirely on our local Chevrolet dealer, is for a car. That's right, a car. If I were a normal nearly 51 year old man, you'd be expecting me to tell you that the car that is calling my name is either a Corvette or a Porsche or any other compensating vehicle. Nope, not me. It's this:

That's right. A Cadillac CT6. An enormous, land yacht Cadillac. Are these not the milieu of retired insurance salespeople and bankers who shuttle back and forth between Rotary Club meetings and appointments with their proctologists?

Every time I see this car, prominently parked in front of the aforementioned local Chevy dealer, I am bewitched. As bewitched as I am by it, I am unnerved. I have no idea why this thing appeals to me. I certainly do not fit the key demographic that buys this car. I really have no business liking this car and yet, I do. Hence, my spiral into the philosophical question, "Who am I?"

Fortunately, I have some answers. A) I read my own Tweets and am reminded I really am not the key demo Cadillac is after and 2) I could never bring myself to unload the kind of cash they want for this Barcalounger on wheels.

As to the question of who I am, well, that mystery remains unresolved. I'm still figuring that out. This much I know, though, that this morning as I drive by that dealership on my way to get religion, and I see that car, I'm still going to wonder, "What would I look like driving this thing to the Chuck-A-Rama?"