I tell people I’m a narcissist so they’ll stop complimenting me. I don’t need compliments because I already think the world of myself. They immediately rebuff me by saying that I’m not narcissistic – I’m confident. Well, I’m here to tell you two things, so listen up! Number one: I really am narcissistic. Number two: I love being complimented on my writing.
I don’t think I’m confident. Confidence implies that you have a belief in a certain positive outcome. You’re walking into a situation bullheaded, because a tiny spark (or longstanding experience) has taught you that you will achieve your desired ending. I have no such confidence. I can walk into a situation knowing that I’m going to fail utterly – proceed to fail utterly – wake up the next morning, wander into the bathroom, look at myself in the mirror and think, “Ah! Thank goodness! I’m still gorgeous.”
When I was a kid, I wasn’t good at anything. You’ve never seen such a pitiful scrap of scrubby kid. I got sad grades, was disliked by everyone for my rotten personality, sucked at sports, played my solos off-key, and cursed at myself while exiting the stage after biting the big one in front of an auditorium full of people on more than one occasion. It’s a late bloomer thing. I knew that one day I’d stop sucking and find my groove.
It’s a matter of forgiving yourself quickly when you embarrass yourself.
One time, when I went to college, I volunteered to do tours of the buildings for perspective students. I was supposed to dress in business attire and wore my favourite pair of black high heels. As soon as I took one step onto the tiling in the atrium in my beautiful black high heel, I knew I was screwed. I sounded like a one man snare drum, with each step echoing into the rafters. That tiling covers the whole college. I hid in the carpeted library and waited for the tours to start. I wracked my brains. I had no choice. I had to do the tours wearing those heels. I remember watching all the other tour guides and the college administration gather in the atrium. I stood on the library carpet and psyched myself up. The only way I was going to get away with it was if I acted like I didn’t hear the clatter my every step made. I put my foot on the tile and catwalked my way over to join the other guides. The college administrator actually stopped her briefing to stare at me – along with everyone else. She was stunned (did I forget to mention that I looked gorgeous? Didn’t I tell you? First thing in the morning – gorgeous), and stopped everything to say how fabulous I looked. I did the tours and I was even louder than I feared, but I got a shoulder rub from a hot rugby player during the break. How’s that?
Remember Oscar Wilde – “To love one’s self is the beginning of a life-long romance.”
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