When I was a little boy, my mum would put me to bed with a story book, planting in me the seeds of my eventual reading habit.
"I don't like where this story is going," Stanley the sex bunny interrupted.
"I don't know what this story is about," Carl the dense one jumped in, ever keen to be clued in.
"It's just that, there are too many sex cases involving fathers who rape their own daughters and the idea of you sharing this disturbing childhood detail of your mum planting seeds in you at night is just plain creepy," said Stanley, whose ability to link current events with all things sex, surpasses all pornography writers'.
Carl, who has no ability to link anything in life at all, frowned.
"The rocket leaves in my salad are bitter," he concluded, satisfied that he had solved one mystery in his life.
There are just way too many cluttered topics at our table right now, which is nicely situated al fresco, just opposite the old Raffles Hotel.
I was having a hard time talking to the boys about my topic of the day.
Stanley was having a hard time focusing. His eyes were busy trailing every young man that walked past us, as if breaking the line of visual contact would upset some cosmic balance.
Carl too was having a hard time focusing. Between trying to poke his chick peas with his fork all at one go and looking at his phone and breathing, Carl was overwhelmed.
"So, what are we taking about?"
What I would like to talk about during our Friday night dinner at Raffles City, was that these days, I'm feeling increasingly stupid.
Carl put his fork down and looked hurt.
"I'm going to order pasta -- the salad is too bitter," he said and with that, clapped delightfully at his adult decision-making abilities, celebrating yet another win that he can solve problems in life.
Stanley couldn't be bothered to take part in the conversation sensing that it didn't involve sex.
But my point has to be made across. I feel increasingly stupid because I have Imposter Syndrome.
Stanley immediately dismissed me.
"Don't be stupid," he said.
"That's exactly what I'm trying not to be," I retorted.
"What are we talking about?" Carl inquired.
Imposter Syndrome is a concept that's most commonly felt in working adults: Self doubt to the point of feeling like a fraud at work.
Carl sucked in a deep breath at the words "imposter", "fraud" and "work" that are used in the same sentence and went pale as if half expecting officers from the Commercial Affairs Department to emerge from the bushes and handcuff me.
Five seconds later, Carl lit up and beamed cheerfully when the waiter brought him his pasta.
"So, this imposter... who is he?" Carl asked, forking as many penne pasta pieces as possible at one go.
Of late, I'd been tasked with a new project which required me to work with external parties.
"Oooh, I love parties," responded Carl who was feeling particularly chatty.
"And I love all things external -- the more exposed the better," replied Stanley who was feeling particularly slutty.
Thing is, I know I'm good at my job.
I think so.
I mean, at least, I feel so, until I move out of my comfort zone and start interacting with experts from outside my company.
By then, Carl was fully engrossed in his meal and anyone with superhero vision could see Carl's force field engulfing him, protecting him from any form of distraction.
Stanley chewed slowly and gave my views some thought.
"If it's any consolation, I have Imposter's Syndrome too."
At this point, Carl was busy storing pasta in both his cheeks, no doubt preparing for winter so Stanley and I decided to continue talking among ourselves.
When we both started our careers, despite being in different fields, Stanley and I had many common traits.
We both wanted to learn as much as possible, weren't afraid of failure, and we enjoyed the process.
That was when we were in our twenties.
I remember my then-team leader's precious advice to me: In your twenties, it's okay to fail. That's how we learn. It's how we move on and change for the better that matters, she said.
By our thirties, we'd learned enough from role models at work and had time to hone our craft.
That's when we saw the fruits of our labour -- more tasks, promotions, pay rises.
We were well on our up the corporate ladder.
It was also the time I felt most powerful at work: I was by then a middle manager who had a small team under me, and supportive bosses above me and I was most empowered, often daring to take risks which most of the time served me well.
And then come the forties.
I'm definitely higher in the food chain and instead of eating worms, I eat bigger beasts for breakfast, a sign that I'm fiercer and one step closer to being the Lion King.
But not quite there yet.
At my age and stage of my career, I can't afford to fail.
I have to keep improving, keep paddling. Stop to rest for a while and Betsy Chia from two desks away who'd passed up marriage and dating for a career would overtake me.
I'm well aware of that so I never stop paddling.
"Me too. I paddle like mad by day, and pedal like mad by night," Stanley said, making an effort to shift his legs to give me a preview of how fast he can cycle in the air, and again, never failing to link something from the boardroom to the bedroom.
"Oh, dragon boating! Yes!" Carl looked up from his bowl of pasta and flexed his python-sized bicep and continued making his penne disappear.
These days, to stay on top of the game, I volunteer to take on additional projects.
That's when I realise that stepping out of my comfort zone to learn new things can be both a refreshing and intimidating experience.
We all know the adage -- knowledge is power.
But the more I know, the more I don't know: There's just way too much to grasp!
Carl, who had by then finished licking his fork and spoon and had nothing else better to do, looked at me and nodded meaningfully, comprehending every essence of what I had just said.
Stanley leaned in and set the record straight.
"I know what you mean, Adam," he said. "And you're no spring chicken so you've got to snap out of it."
According to Stanley, Imposter Syndrome happens to people who're self-conscious of their work.
"These people still have some semblance of shame," he said. "So you're alright, Adam."
Stanley says it's only people who're truly stupid or useless who don't have Imposter Syndrome at all.
That's because, he says, they can't be bothered to review their own performance and have no shame, so they don't blame themselves for being inadequate.
We on the other hand, are people who know we want to do well, recognise that we don't know it all and fear that we can't catch up.
"But guess what, Adam? It is that very fear, that you should be thankful for. Without that spark of fear, you'll forever be complacent, falling into the trap of being all-knowing.
"Grasp it. Feel the spark. Feel the fear because that's the very fear that will propel you, not swallow you," Stanley said, channelling his inner Deepak Chopra.
Carl looked like he was about to collapse from stress and info overload.
"So you mustn't be defeated," Stanley said, making his closing argument.
"Imposter's Syndrome is something all good, humble workers have. I feel like I have Imposter's Syndrome his too, to be honest. And I'm sure Carl has something to add to this."
"Yes!" Carl beamed, looking up from the menu.
"I know what to have for dessert already," he concluded, immensely happy that he had yet again managed to make another important decision in his life.
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