Me Me Me Me Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

My younger son, Rex, earned his orange belt in taekwondo the other day.  I texted my sisters a video of the ceremony because I’ve quit all social media since obviously I’m better than everyone else.

On our sister text thread (which we rarely get into fights on—strangely, since the older sis and I can’t be around each other in real life for more than 3 hours before all Hades breaks loose), I squealed over my son and his accomplishment, and then I added, “When you watch the video, in the first few seconds you can see me in the mirror in the front of the room.  I’m on the left and I look all skinny and tan!”

My older sister Vickie texted back, “Of course—still has to be something about you in there.”

Uh...YEAH, I replied. I mean, how long has she known me?  She’s two years older, so at least since birth, right?

I make things all about me.  It’s just what I do.

One time at a party, a friend was trying to show me pictures of some people on her phone.  She held it out to me, but I waved it away.  “Am I in any of them?”

“Um…no?” she responded. “I told you these are of a trip I went on with my family.”

“Not interested,” I said.  “I don’t like pictures unless I’m in them.”

Everyone started laughing like I was making some kind of a joke.  Then, when people began quieting down, I watched as they exchanged puzzled glances across the table:  Is she SERIOUS?? 

One brave soul spoke up.  It was Lena, one of my little sister’s best friends.  She spoke slowly, almost in awe; a life-changing epiphany was just now dawning on her, after all.  “Actually, I never thought about it before, but…I don’t really like pictures unless I’m in them, either…”

And then there were murmurs of agreement and a smattering of nods as everyone at that backyard patio table realized that they were as narcissistic as I am.

You’re all welcome for the gift of self-awareness.

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