[Noun; ~Pronunciation: /soo-per-heer-oh/]
- Definition: Finally getting through ALL episodes of the TV series Heroes and fantasising about how you would put your potential super powers to good use, while simultaneously wondering if your neighbours, whose cat has been steadily taking over your back garden, might be dead.
“Everyone is necessarily the hero of his own life story”
– John Barth –
For the past few months I’ve been telling myself I’m fine. That I’ll be okay, life will turn around and I needn’t worry. Instead, I’ve been so occupied pushing all my worries to the back of my mind, my body started to react. First by gaining weight, then by losing energy, and eventually by losing interest in pretty much everything. I’m back at the bottom of a deep emotional pit.
What does that have to do with superheroes? Well, I always thought I was different from most people. I mean, I do not have super powers (obviously), but I never saw myself as a normal person. My thoughts, aspirations, actions… they all differ from other people’s wants. I always imagined one day I’d stand up and save someone’s life, make myself useful. Not necessarily by removing them from a burning car, like that man in the papers did a while back, but maybe just by improving their self-esteem and making them enjoy life again.
I kind of, sort of, saw myself as a modern superhero-to-be.
Then my neighbours’ cat started to occupy my back garden. Which in itself is harmless. I like Tommy, especially now he lets me pet him, and he’s fun to watch while he makes his round.
My mother was asked a few times to cat-sit him when our neighbours were away, and ever since then she’s kept a secret stash of cat food and candies for little Tommy. Every time she spots him in the garden she gives him a little treat, with “every time” being about two to three times a week.
But Tommy has recently decided to show up three times a day.
Which is all fine, for I love everything fuzzy and animal-like, and at first I couldn’t get enough of petting him and of course I fed him the occasional treat. But since about two days, he keeps coming back. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’m being stalked by a dark guy with cute ears and a lot of hair (plus a strange meow). When I open the curtains in the morning, I see Tommy. When I open the back door to go outside, Tommy’s right there, waiting for me.
And don’t even get me started about his piercing eyes burning in my back when I’m trying to cook dinner.
Although my initial thought was awwwww, I am now slightly worried about his owners; what if something’s happened to them and Tommy is over at my place so much because he can’t get to his own food bowl? What if my neighbours are dead!?
I know they’re (probably) not, for their daughter comes over frequently so their bodies would have been found by now. But I am worried. Worried that there is something wrong and I am not doing anything. Worried that there’s nothing wrong and I’ll ring their doorbell for nothing. Worried about what they might think of me when I tell them about my Tommy-theory.
Worried that I’ll never outgrow this insecurity and become a superhero. Or just a regular hero, for that matter.
I’d hoped I’d get some peace and quiet while my parents were on holiday, instead I got a stalking cat.
I may not be a superhero, but I am someone who’s always got a plan. I am going to keep an eye on my neighbours’ house and if nothing moves before I go to work tomorrow, I’m going to ring their doorbell and sneak a peak through their window if nobody answers.
Because if their cat can stalk me, I might as well return the favour. Who knows, it might save their lives.