Control looks like two exhausted kids, asleep in their car seats, while dad detours to wash the car after a long day of hiking. “Never mind how exhausted and hungry you guys are, this car has to look good.”
Control looks like the business owner who still insists on handling every detail of running a business because no one else is competent enough to handle even the most mundane tasks.
Control looks like the hair style that hasn’t been in style in twelve years. You know the one – it’s untouchable, unnatural and hard as a helmet from several coats of hair spray. “Mess with my hair and I’ll mess with you.”
Control looks like the family walking through Disneyland dressed in matching shorts, t-shirts and ball caps. If you see them from the front, they all have the same grimace on their faces. They’ve been coached to pretend to look like they’re having fun.
Control looks like the house that is never in need of dusting. Every art object is displayed in the right light. Every piece of furniture is placed at the best angle. This house isn’t lived it – living is messy. This house is for show.
Control looks like too-tight pony tails, double-knotted shoe laces, a pink blouse sans popsicles drips and clean hands and knees. Control looks like a little girl who is sad because she isn’t allowed to dig for worms because she’ll get dirty.
Control looks like criticism. He’ll criticize your attempts at faux painting the bathroom, so he can sweep in and show you how talented he is by painting the wall himself.
Control looks like the child in the coffee shop who sits quietly, staring at her hands while her mother sends emails and texts. This child knows better than to interrupt. She knows not to make a ruckus. She knows not to act like a child.
Control looks like the yard down the street – the one belonging to the family with four kids. At least you think kids live there, but you never see their toys, you never see chalk on the sidewalk, and the lawn is always meticulously manicured.
Control looks like the guy at the cocktail party who doesn’t laugh spontaneously after a joke. He measures every response. He carefully holds his drink, stands with impeccable posture, and will complain if the bartender hasn’t mixed his Gimlet perfectly.
Control leaves no margin for error.
Control makes it difficult to breathe easily.
Control is a masquerade hiding a deeply pained, insecure individual.