I firmly believe that many of my not-so-close friends like the 'idea of me' as opposed to the 'reality of me'.

We all have a side that we show to the outside world. An amalgamation of our resume and the properness of being in the company of others. It's how we act in an interview. When we meet a significant other's parents. When we make a new friend. It's the information our parents tell others when they want to brag. Putting on our perfect behavior.

I call that the 'idea of me.' To an outsider, I am an overachiever. I work at a top-notch investment bank, I volunteer six to eight hours a week, I take six classes, I have a Masters degree, I read voraciously, and I speak seven languages. To an outsider, I am intelligent, caring and inspirational. I am good at heart. A loving person. I am a collection of positive traits. To an outsider.

And then we have the side that only the really intimate see. The one that awakes with a hangover. The one who's too lazy to replace the toilet paper roll. The one who's clipping his toenails. The one who picks her nose in private, or when she thinks no one else is around. The one who reads an embarrassing book or is hooked on a TV program he'd never admit to in public. Those really not-so-pretty and human sides of us.

That's what I mean when I say, the 'reality of me.' What the insider gets to see is that I worry too much. Sometimes the smallest decisions are the hardest to make and I need reassurance about the stupidest things. I still freak out before every exam. I am never satisfied with my results. Every achievement is replaced quickly by another goal, a harder, more complicated one. I am perfectly capable of being petty, holding a grudge, and being selfish. I don't take care of my skin. I steal the covers. I have been known to talk and even walk in my sleep. I grind my teeth like mad. I am far from perfect. Behind the scenes.

The idea of me is wonderful. The reality, not so much so.

When I meet someone who tells me how great I am and how they like this and that about me, I automatically think that all they have is the idea of me. The surface. It's easy to polish a wooden table so you can see your reflection on it, but it's hard to get rid of the rotten wood inside the legs. Which is why I don't often pay heed to compliments from people who don't know me that well. Even my friends, not really really close friends but the acquaintance ones maybe, at times, never move past the idea of me.

The real reward comes when someone takes the time to see the reality of me. The rotten wood and all, and still chooses to have me in her or his life. I don't have many of those in my life, but the few that I do have, I hold very dear to my heart.

The idea of me puts me on a pedestal, one I am bound to fall from. The reality of me makes it okay for me to screw up. It lets me know that I don't have to worry about my mask falling off when I am with this person.

Because I don't have to wear one.

Previously? Agenda.