I was in the local paper twice yesterday. The first was in a group shot of me and two other new library employees. It was a faded, black and white picture, so I didn't feel too terrible about how I looked. The second was a publicity shot of me and one of the little four-year-olds who comes to storytime, sitting at a table and playing with the library's new set of Brio blocks. In my opinion, I look huge, especially in contrast to the tiny figure next to me.

I'm usually pretty good at not focusing on what others may be thinking or saying about me. Lately, though, my "image" has been playing an increasingly prevalent role in my thoughts. I decided last night, after considering it for a few days, that my wardrobe didn't look sufficiently "librarian," so I went out and bought some outfit staples that I would probably have never considered purchasing before I got this job: flowered cardigan with funky buttons, some seaweed-painted long skirts. Two days ago, I found myself pinning to my blouse the large insect brooch that Rita bought for me years ago; it's quite ugly, but I knew it would make the little ones laugh.

I think I can make some guesses as to what the other librarians think about me, though it's certainly not all true. Many of them consider me some kind of computer expert, simply because I can maneuver my way around both Mac and PC, and because I know more than four keystroke commands. It's not hard to rise to the top of the heap here in that aspect; I overheard one librarian telling another that the only way to remove the CD-ROM's from the kids' Macintosh was to unplug the machine.

This afternoon, I walked in on a conversation wherein one of the clerks was discussing the purchase of a calculator for the circulation desk. Apparently, all they currently had was a child's calculator, about three inches across with infinitesimal buttons. My innocent query, "Did you use the computer's calculator?" earned me awed looks and a few, "You're brilliant!" comments. I'm not doing anything to encourage these rumors; certainly, they make me uncomfortable, but they just won't stop.

I contrast this with my husband's opinion of me. I've already spoken in detail about how he considers me as often impractical and impetuous. He knows I have a wicked sense of humor and a temper best avoided at all costs; neither of these are known by anyone with whom I work. Eric and I have no secrets; I know that's hard to believe, but it's true. It's wonderful to have somebody dear to you who will always let you know exactly what he's thinking, and not hide his true feelings about your character.

My family knows about my temper, but they probably see me as independent rather than impetuous. I don't think my inlaws have ever witnessed my mean streak, and probably wouldn't believe Eric if he told them I had one. Both families probably see me as "mothering."

Who am I? Sometimes I feel as if I'm maintaining two separate and distinct personalities: one for public, who is always calm, rational, and capable, and one for home, who can be flighty and impassioned. I'd hate for my coworkers to get a glimpse through my living room window. And why is it so easy to "turn off" my temper when I get to work? Why can I be polite to a patron who's being downright rude to me, but if Eric were to give me the same lip, I'd get up and leave the room in a fury? How can I behave in so saintly a manner as I stand in the front of the church choir, but pick a fight with my husband on the way home?

Until I was about eleven, I was a "girl." There were no questions concerning that. Almost immediately upon turning twelve, I began to struggle with my identity; I wasn't "girl" anymore, and I didn't like "young lady" - too formal. Even when I officially turned thirteen, I didn't like the sound off the word "teenager;" the whine of the "ee" sound has always brought a sour taste to my mouth, even as the final syllable of my name.

By the time I settled into "teenager," I had earned myself an internship in a junior high school choral department, and I became "Miss Armstrong" at the age of sixteen. I was "that lady." It sounded bizarre to my ears, considering that I was only a few years removed from the people referring to me as such. I gradually got used to it (though it was still a shock when the school presented me a yearbook, autographed by all of my students to "My teacher, Miss Armstrong"), and was finally consistently answering to my surname when Eric proposed. With a ring on my finger, I morphed overnight from "lady" to "woman."

Yesterday I was called "Ma'am" for the first time. A new identity and image lurks for me around the bend. Will it be as much of a shock as the ones which preceded it? When will I finally settle in to a persona that fits?