Museum of Me

When I was a small boy, I had a powder blue sweatshirt which had the face of Micky Mouse on it. I think it must have been from when I was around four years old. Because as a child it was my absolute favourite item of clothing, it was kept each time we moved.

When I was around sixteen or seventeen my brother and I were asked to put away our childish things. I can remember, and I am willing to admit to you now, that I decided to keep this item at that point because I thought it would be a good item to have for the museum about me that they would have when I was famous. I can remember this clearly, the certainty that this would be necessary.

Now we could dwell on my teenage lack of self awareness, or on how I was sure I would be famous but I had no idea how I was going to do this, or on how a branded sweatshirt rather than a handmade sweater from my Grandmother might not have been the best item. Or we could focus on another aspect, something that came to me as I thought about that sweatshirt.

What would you have to do to get a museum about you these days? There aren’t really museums about people. Exhibits happen I suppose. The US Presidents get a library, but only an exhibit in the library is about them and I guess they wouldn’t include a sweatshirt from when they were four there. I think there is a museum for the Formula One driver David Coulthard but he must be a rare exception and sports isn’t really my specialist subject.

And don’t be confused, it’s not that I’d like a museum of me these days. What I’m astounded by is not just that I wanted to be famous, but so famous that they would build a museum to me when most famous people I can think of don’t even have one. The worst part was that was I was seventeen when I was thinking this.

Maybe the only way to get the museum would be to build it myself and then I could be famous as the weird guy who built a museum about himself.

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