Discovering one doppelganger is freakish enough; so the fact that I have several creeps the Barry BeeGeesus out of me. In case you think I suffer from hairy butt moles or something, here’s the definition. A doppelganger is an unrelated person who could be your twin. Sort of like Helen Hunt and Leelee Sobieski. Julia Stiles and Erika Christensen. Renee Zellweger and Joey Lauren Adams.
Helen or Leelee?
Can you believe there’s actually a word for this phenomenon? Leave it to the Germans, who also gave us the word/concept, “schadenfreude,” which means delighting in someone else’s misfortunes. Kind of like watching TMZ all day.
The extra unsettling part is that I haven’t met any of my doppelgangers; this is how I know they exist.
Friend: Hey, saw you at the game on Saturday.
Me: What game?
Former roommate(!): Why didn’t you wave at me in class?
Me: What class?
Co-worker: Where’d you go for lunch?
Me: What lunch? I’ve been stuck in the office all day.
Co-worker: But I saw you driving off in a red car.
Me: Sweet Jesus! We drive the same-color car!
Boss: You sure you’re not related to my vet, Dr. D? You’re a dead ringer for her!
Me: Pleeease, she’s but a mere shadow of me.
Boss: How funny, that’s what she said about you. With her arms folded like that, too.
Me: Mother!
Co-worker 2: What are you doing here? I just saw you walk up the stairs.
Me: Good God, there’s a doppelganger in the building. My building. Or is it her building? Our building?
I was afraid to walk around at work. What if I came face to face with my doppelganger? That would create a rift in the space-time continuum. Or I would be sucked into the vortex of a parallel universe.
Luckily, my company clone suddenly resigned, as the universe tried to right itself. Not a moment too soon. Turns out, she was a taller, prettier and skinnier version of me. Damn. That makes me the dumpy evil one.
Meanwhile, the “me” sightings continue. And having so many doppelgangers in this world makes me feel extraordinarily … average.
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