Give Me Back My Glove
My glove is lonely. I put him and his brother in my coat pocket when I threw my coat into the room with all the other coats. When I came back, I no longer had a pair of gloves. I had a glove. Uno. One. Singular. Sensation. This is not OK. I am devastated and I blame you for my catastrophic loss. Why?
I saw the way you and your ilk were acting at that party. All cavorting around with your beer and cocktails as if you were the coolest thing in the world. Well I got news for you. There’s more to life than making six figures, having a bitching condo, summering at the Cape, and that thing you call “upward social mobility”. ’course you probably knew this, and that’s why you stole my glove. That’s right, I know the truth about you. Deep down inside, underneath that svelte two button chalk striped Burberry suit, lives a core of anguish. Beneath that fashionably angular lapel is a heart that yearns for something more than spinning circles in the wheel ruts of conformity. I can tell you want more out of life than speed dating young professionals in the Back Bay. You wake up every morning and say to yourself, “I feel so hollow inside. All I ever do is downsize companies and move money from column A to column B.”
This existential crisis has lead you into a world of petty thievery. Mergers and Acquisitions has made you numb to the twists and turns of the world, desensitized from everyday human emotion — you feel as if the walls are closing in on you, trapping you in the glass jar of 9 to 5 days and country club weekends. You had to lash out, it was only natural for you. You turned to stealing accessories from guests at cocktail parties. But it will never be enough. What’s next? Burglarizing bags? Pilfering pearls? Like an addict, you’ll only spiral deeper and deeper. Soon you’ll descend into securities fraud. You’ll get a rush out of defrauding the elderly.
Yes. I know the truth. Stealing my glove was a secret cry for help. You’re begging for someone to give your life direction, for someone to tell you “no” again. You’re sick of enablers. I understand you, I really do. Now can I have my glove back please? I’m a poor grad student. Steal from someone in your own tax bracket. I know why you came after me, you saw me as a threat. You saw someone living the carefree life of a grad student, no responsibilities, no money, no wants or desires. You saw it and you envied it, you desired it, and when you couldn’t have it, you sought to destroy it by slightly inconveniencing me.
Well, I got news for you buddy, your plan won’t work. You aren’t the first I-banker to crack like an egg and you won’t be the last. But there’s hope. Join the Peace Corps, go back to school, take up alternative medicine, I don’t care, just give me my glove back. I need it. My left hand is freezing.