The Committee of Me

When All My Personalities Show Up for the Meeting

Calling the Meeting to Disorder

There are days when I’m convinced my inner monologue isn’t a monologue at all. It’s a committee meeting. And not a well‑run one — more the kind where half the attendees are late, someone brought the wrong agenda, and the person taking minutes keeps drifting into a daydream about owning a small shrimping boat.

I’ll be trying to make a simple decision — something low‑stakes, like whether to answer an email now or after the continents finish rearranging themselves — and suddenly the whole group shows up. Rational Me clears his throat and begins outlining a sensible plan. Enthusiastic Me claps like we’re about to launch a start‑up. Smartass Me mutters something unhelpful under his breath. Overthinking Me is already drafting a 50-page disaster recovery plan entitled “What If This Email Ruins Everything?” And Hungry Me wants to know if we can postpone the decision until after a snack, or ideally several.

This is the team running (ruining?) my life. These are the people making my decisions.

God help me.

And I can’t help wondering if everyone else is doing the same thing — thankfully not with my team, but with their own personal staff of inept weirdos and wackadoodles, all waging some kind of internal turf war over how to complete a simple task.

The good news is that once you recognize the chaos, it becomes oddly comforting.

Sure, my committee is dysfunctional.

But at least it’s my dysfunction.

Roll Call of the Questionably Qualified

Before we get to the meeting itself, it’s only fair to introduce the core members of the committee — the ones who show up to every decision whether they’re invited, needed, or even remotely helpful. These are the regulars. The lifers. The people who have been running my internal operations with the confidence of a group that has never once been held accountable.

Rational Me is the closest thing we have to leadership. He brings charts, timelines, and a calm voice that suggests he still believes this group can behave professionally and stay on task. His optimism is both touching and misplaced.

Enthusiastic Me arrives like a golden retriever in human form, thrilled to be included and convinced that every problem is “totally solvable if we just believe in ourselves.” He has never once considered the possibility that belief, on its own, is not a strategic plan.

Smartass Me contributes nothing except commentary. He derails discussions with remarks that are neither as wise nor as smart as he thinks they are. But he delivers them with the confidence of someone who believes he’s the comic relief in a show that doesn’t exist — and that no one else would be watching even if it did. Occasionally taps the top of a pretend microphone and says “Is this thing on?”

Overthinking Me insists on context. All of it. At once. He cannot proceed until he has examined every angle, sub‑angle, and the emotional subtext of the angle beneath that. He is currently overanalyzing a text message that simply said “Sounds good,” and he will not be rushed.

Hungry Me is not technically part of the decision‑making process, but he participates anyway. He believes every problem is a nutritional emergency and that no meeting should begin without snacks, breaks, or ideally both. He is responsible for most of my worst decisions and all of my best sandwiches.

These five form the “core team,” in the same way that five mismatched utensils form a place setting suitable for a Royal visit. They’re not coordinated, but they’re what I’ve got.

And unfortunately, they’re not the only ones who show up.

Today’s Agenda: Immediate Derailment

Rational Me: All right, everyone, let’s bring this meeting to order. We have one item on the agenda today: replying to an email. A simple, straightforward—

Enthusiastic Me: Amazing! Love it! Great energy already! I just want to say how thrilled I am that we’re all here, working together, as a team. This is going to be our best meeting yet. I can feel it.

Smartass Me: Wow. Bold prediction for a group that needed forty‑five minutes to choose a font for our last email.

Overthinking Me: Well, to be fair, the font did carry emotional implications we weren’t prepared to confront.

Smartass Me: We went with Comic Sans! Really? It’s the red-headed stepchild of fonts!

Hungry Me: Do we have snacks? I feel like we should have snacks. I can’t be expected to make decisions on an empty stomach. Or a half‑empty stomach. Or a stomach that’s thinking about being empty.

Rational Me: There are no snacks. Because this is a five‑minute meeting.

Smartass Me: You’ve heard of breakfast, right?

Hungry Me: I know, I know — but all I had was one of those little yogurt cups…

Smartass Me: (stares at Hungry Me in stunned silence, eyebrows slowly climbing toward his hairline)

Hungry Me: (sheepishly)…and I thought we’d have better stuff to eat at the meeting.

Smartass Me: There we go!

Enthusiastic Me: I brought a flip chart! I thought we could brainstorm! Maybe colour‑code our feelings about the email?

Smartass Me: Yes, let’s absolutely colour‑code our feelings. I’d like to request “acute disinclination” in chartreuse.

Hungry Me: Char-truce-ery! I’ve heard of that! It’s one of those board thingys with cheese and crackers and meats and pickles!

Rational Me: That’s charcuterie, not chartreuse.

Hungry Me: So you can’t eat chartreuse?

Overthinking Me: Technically, anything is edible once.

Hungry Me: That’s not helpful.

Overthinking Me: I didn’t say it was helpful. I said it was technically true.

???: Ahem.

Know‑it‑all Me: (entering the room) Actually, besides being a colour, chartreuse is also a beverage, so you could technically drink it — but the idea that “anything is edible once” is a common misconception. Many substances cannot be ingested even a single time without immediate —

Smartass Me: Oh good, he made it. I was beginning to worry that we’d go an hour or two without being corrected.

Rational Me: We did not invite you.

Know‑it‑all Me: Overthinking said something incorrect. That’s my invitation.

Enthusiastic Me: It’s so good when everyone gets engaged in the process!

Smartass Me:‍ ‍Engaged in the process? How about filing for divorce from it instead?

Hungry Me: Does anyone else smell muffins?

Rational Me: No. No. No one smells muffins. There are no muffins.

Hungry Me: Then why am I smelling muffins?

Overthinking Me:(hesitating) Uhhh… because you want muffins. Even I didn’t need to analyze that.

Know‑it‑all Me: Olfactory hallucinations can be caused by —

Rational Me: Moving on. We need to decide whether to reply to the email now or later.

Overthinking Me: Well, “now” is a complicated concept. Philosophically speaking —

Smartass Me: Oh good Lord…

Overthinking Me: — time is not linear, and the emotional tone of the email suggests —

Cynical Me: You know this is pointless, right?

Rational Me: What? Wait — when did you get here? Also, you’re not on the agenda.

Cynical Me: Like that matters. Anyway, we’re just going to make the wrong decision. We always do. Remember the last time we replied to an email promptly? We hit “Reply All” instead of “Reply”.

Rational Me: Yes, I remember. But it was just the one time.

Cynical Me: And then the entire corporation knew we were requesting our own hotel room for the annual meeting because we had sleep apnea and we didn’t want to keep anyone else awake. Just trying to be considerate, and we spent the next three weeks hearing everyone make up nicknames for us.

Smartass Me: Some of them were honestly inspired. “Husky” — short for Husqvarna, like the chainsaw? Remember that one? That was art.

Overthinking Me: Objectively clever.

Smartass Me: And “Zzz Top”? That one deserved an award.

Rational Me: We agreed never to speak of that again.

Cynical Me: And yet here we are. On the threshold of making the same disastrous mistakes. In the same body.

Enthusiastic Me: I think “disastrous” is a bit of a stretch. It was really more like… a learning opportunity!

Smartass Me: Yes! The opportunity was “learn not to do that again.”

Know‑it‑all Me: Technically, it wasn’t a disaster. A disaster requires —

Rational Me: Please stop defining things.

Cynical Me: You can’t stop him. He feeds on it.

Hungry Me: Speaking of feeding —

Rational Me: No.

Hungry Me: You don’t even know what I was going to say.

Rational Me: You were going to ask about snacks.

Hungry Me: …I mean, yes.

Enthusiastic Me: I brought markers! Does anyone want to smell the markers?

Hungry Me: Do any smell like pizza? I’m willing to try anything at this point.

Smartass Me: I’m no psychoanalyst, but I think inhaling solvents qualifies as a cry for help.

Cynical Me: The real cry for help is this meeting.

Overthinking Me: I’m just saying, the email’s tone could be interpreted as neutral, passive‑aggressive, or aggressively neutral, and each interpretation requires a different emotional strategy.

Ennui Me: Can we just… not? Any of it? The email, the meeting, consciousness in general?

Rational Me: No, we cannot “not.” We have to reply.

Ennui Me: Do we, though? Do we really? What if we just… drifted away like mist?

Smartass Me: Finally, someone with a plan.

Cynical Me: It won’t work. Nothing works.

Know‑it‑all Me: Actually, mist is formed when —

Rational Me: Please stop.

Hungry Me: I’m serious, though. I need a snack. Even a stale crust of bread.

Enthusiastic Me: I believe in us! We can do this! We can reply to an email! We can accomplish anything!

Cynical Me: Except this.

Hungry Me:(squinting) Is that a fuzzy jellybean I see under the credenza over there?

???: A quiet throat‑clear from the back of the room.

1981 Me: I’d just like to remind everyone of that thing we said in Grade 9. You know the one.

(The room falls silent.)

Smartass Me: Great. Trauma just punched the clock.

Rational Me: No. No, we are not doing this today.

1981 Me: I think we are.

Overthinking Me: Well, now we have to revisit the entire emotional context of the email.

1981 Me: I’m just saying that anything we say in this email has to go through my filter first. We can’t risk another “I-had-no-idea-she-was-standing-right-behind-me-when-I-said-that” fiasco.

Cynical Me: God, it’s an EMAIL! No one is going to be looking over their shoulder when they open it!

1981 Me: Sure. Easy for you to say.

Know-it-all Me: Interesting word “fiasco.” It comes from an Italian phrase “far fiasco”, literally meaning "to make a bottle.” Some etymologists —

(Everyone stares dully at Know-it-all. He falls silent mid-sentence, like a deer caught in the headlights of social disapproval. More uncomfortable silence, before finally…)

Rational Me: Fine. Get it out of your system.

Know-it-all Me: (racing through his explanation) Some etymologists believe it comes from Venetian glassblowers who would turn flawed, artistic glass pieces into ordinary bottles, and now we use the word “fiasco” to refer to any ignominious failure. There! Done!

Cynical Me: Told you. Pointless.

Ennui Me: Can I go home?

Hangry Me: (wielding a whiteboard eraser like a broken bottle) THAT’S IT! I CAN’T DO THIS! I’M GOING TO THE BAKERY NOW! NO ONE TRY TO STOP ME!

Enthusiastic Me: I still think we can salvage this!

Smartass Me: Buddy, that ship has sailed and sunk.

Rational Me: (deep sigh) All right. Next agenda item: scheduling a follow-up meeting.

All Those in Favour of Confusion, Say Aye

By the time the meeting collapses — usually somewhere between the emotional scarring flashback from 1981 Me and the 30th Smartass remark — I’m left with the same familiar sensation: a kind of mental static, like all my thoughts tried to speak at once and accidentally formed a barbershop quartet of confusion.

This is the part where I attempt to regain control.

Or at least pretend to.

I’ll stand there, staring at the email that started all of this, trying to piece together what the committee actually decided. Did we agree to reply now? Later? Never? Did we vote? Was there a vote? Did Enthusiastic Me count raised hands that weren’t actually raised? Did Cynical Me veto something? Did Overthinking Me create a subcommittee? Why is there a flip chart on my desk? Who the hell was taking minutes?

And of course, Know‑it‑all Me will insist that “technically, no formal motion was passed,” which is not helpful. I’m not running Parliament here. I’m not using Robert’s Rules of Order. I’m using Todd’s Rules of Disorder. All I’m trying to do is answer an email from someone who probably thinks I’m ignoring them.

This is the moment when the whole team, despite their wildly different agendas, suddenly unites around a single shared principle: confusion is the safest option.

Because if we’re confused, we don’t have to commit.

If we don’t commit, we can’t be wrong.

And if we can’t be wrong, then maybe — just maybe — we can avoid another Reply‑All Incident.

So the internal vote goes something like this:

• Rational Me votes for clarity.

• Enthusiastic Me votes for optimism.

• Smartass Me votes for sarcasm.

• Overthinking Me votes for several amendments to his disaster recovery plan.

• Hungry Me has sent his apologies because he has barricaded himself in a bakery and is currently OD‑ing on eclairs.

• Cynical Me votes against the clarity Rational Me was in favour of.

• Ennui Me abstains because of voter fatigue.

• Know‑it‑all Me votes to correct the wording of the motion.

• 1981 Me votes to remind us of something irrelevant and painful.

And somehow, despite all that, the motion that always — always — passes unanimously is:

“Let’s just stare at the problem for a while and hope a solution spontaneously presents itself.”

Sadly, but not surprisingly, it never does.

But the “no conclusion” confusion?

That’s the one agenda item that sails through every time — no debate, no disputes, no dissent.

No problemo.

Meeting Adjourned; Nothing Resolved

Eventually, the committee disperses — not because we’ve reached a decision, but because everyone simply runs out of steam.

Smartass Me shakes his head and laughs at how stupid everyone else is.

Enthusiastic Me leaves to “reset the energy in the room.”

Overthinking Me is already drafting a follow‑up meeting agenda in his head.

Hungry Me is passed out on the bakery floor in a sugar coma, clutching a half‑eaten danish.

Know-it-all Me is reading an encyclopedia to load up for the next meeting.

1981 Me skulks back to whatever shadowy corner of my psyche he crawled out from, satisfied that he has once again contributed absolutely nothing of value.

Cynical Me mutters something about the futility of existence and wanders off to vape with Ennui Me behind the building.

And Rational Me continues to prod me to answer the email.

The same email I’m still staring at.

The one that started all of this.

The one that could have been answered in thirty seconds by a functional adult with a normal brain.

But instead, here I am, mentally sweeping up after a meeting that produced:

• no decision

• no clarity

• no action plan

• a hyperglycemic migraine

• and at least one 45-year old emotional flashback I did not ask for

This is the part where I try to convince myself that next time will be different.

That next time I’ll reply immediately.

That next time I won’t convene the psychological equivalent of the UN just to decide whether to type “Sounds good, thanks.”

But I know better.

The truth is, this is how my brain works.

This is the system.

This is the committee.

And the meeting always ends the same way.

No consensus.

No resolution.

So I close the email and promise myself that I’ll “circle back to it later.”

Meeting adjourned.

Nothing resolved.

Business as usual.

Then I hear that all‑too‑familiar bing from my laptop.

Oh look. Another email.

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