Clark Kent Syndrome

So here's the thing, I spent Sunday night like a rock star signing friggin' autographs for the young and old. I was openly ogled more than once. I knocked girls to the ground and even instigated a bit of a 'thing' with Mama Roach by shouting, "Get off of her you bitch" and then flicking her off and winking when she gave me the stink eye. (Princess Disgrace is revealing herself to be a bit of an asshole)
But see, now I'm back to mild-mannered pseudo-librarian April. Today I realized that tone of our fans who gushed love to me (and my team) before the bout is actually a volunteer at our branch . Did she recognize me behind the glasses, sans pigtails, tiara, and skates? Nope. See, glasses really are a foolproof disguise! Oh, and when a nutty half-drunk lady started to yell at me about our computer reservation system, my only reaction was to turn and say, "I'm sorry you feel that way" while our security guard made a beeline for her. I don't know what it is about the derby track that makes me so hot-headed, or what it is about normal life that makes me even-keeled (at least when playing with others), but I have never felt the superhero dichotomy in such a personal way.
Next dose of the strong PD juice comes 8/13.
I'm already gagging for it.