I am Everyman.  I know this because people tell me all the time.  "You're Everyman," they say, which is a little disappointing since I've gone to great lengths to preserve my secret identity, the traumatic roots of my dual personality, the location  of the Everycave, etc.

"Everyman," as we all recall from English literature class in the tenth grade, is the title of a 16th century morality play, translated from the original Flemish, "Elckerlijc," but try putting that on a business card. 

It's come to represent an ordinary person with ordinary traits and habits, a baseline from which we all deviate occasionally but wish we hadn't, particularly the next morning.  Normal, in other words, somebody the rest of us can relate to but not envy, since by definition Everyman is in every way and in every case ever so boring.

That would be me, according to the kind folks who stop me in the grocery store.  Apparently I got this reputation for normalcy by writing in this column a lot about my family, my lawn, and my dog.  People think I'm a normal person with a normal life, while those who actually know me are currently laughing so hard their stomachs hurt and they're spitting out food they ate a couple of weeks ago.

Oh, I'm sure I do the boring thing pretty well, but you would just have to walk inside my house (not that we would allow that sort of thing) or observe my family for, say, three minutes to reconsider your definition of "normal" and maybe think hard about calling 911.

There are still clothes in the dryer from 1992.  There is dust that has been here so long it's developed a rudimentary civilization.  There are areas of my backyard I haven't seen since the (first) Bush administration.  I always need a haircut, my son moves furniture into the bathroom, my wife talks back to the TV, and I'm pretty sure the dog sees dead people.

Normalcy is, actually, something I crave from time to time, and even aspire to, which my neighbors try to encourage.  But it's hard to pin down, and it keeps changing on us.  It used to be normal for people to fill their gas tanks with change they found under the seat cushions, for example, or to go out in public without earphones.

Let's do a little experiment and try to create an Everyman, just for fun.  He's 38, married, with two kids.  He owns his own house, which he's refinanced twice.  He's 5'10" and 170 pounds.  He has light brown hair and green eyes.  He makes $45,000 a year.  He has two cars, one a late model and the other several years old.  He has mild hay fever and a penicillin allergy (rash), but otherwise is in good health.  He doesn't smoke and drinks only occasionally.  He doesn't use illicit drugs, and what he did in college is nobody's business.  Let's give him a nice haircut just to be fair. 

Is he normal?  Statistically speaking, I mean, in terms of averages and medians and other words I don't understand?  Could we consider him pretty much Everyman?

Nope.  He is strikingly, even remarkably abnormal, and I'll tell you why, although some of you already have figured it out.  You know who you are.

No, this is an extraordinary man, at least in this country, by virtue of the fact that he is not fat.

That’s right, America.  You've suspected it and read about it and now you know it.  Two-thirds of us are overweight, and that's without Marlon Brando around to skew the figures.  Mr. Average up there is a minority, and by all indications it's going to get worse for him.  Pretty soon he'll probably have to start shopping for clothes at specialty stores and paying extra for narrow airline seats.

So I guess I'm pretty normal after all.  You too, maybe. 

And once in a while, I want to feel special again.  Unique, even.  I resolve, I swear, I stay in the produce section, I start an exercise program, I cut carbs, I count calories, I watch fat, and I find myself at 10 o'clock at night searching the store for peanut butter and chocolate ice cream because I will die without it. 

It's an awesome responsibility, being Everyman, and sometimes I wish this burden could be lifted, but we all have our jobs and maybe this is mine.  The ordinary is calling me.  Even now, as I write this, I can almost see the Every Signal in the sky, or hear the Every Phone ringing, summoning me to stay in the middle of the pack, to put on my sweat pants and extra-large shirt and venture out to do battle with the forces of evil.

Although it could just be the UPS guy.  Maybe if I put a hat on he won't notice my hair.