ROB BECK | 5.14.2008
me?” my friend Chelsea asked from the back seat as I pointed a camera at him. We were on our way home from a night out, with my roommate George handling driving duties for the evening.
“Of course not, why would you think I’m recording you?” I asked as I continued recording him. As we headed home, I decided to utilize my camera's video function for reasons I no longer understand now that I’m sober.
“You’ve been pointing that thing at me for like ten minutes, and I haven’t seen a flash,” Chelsea said.
“The flash is broken,” I lied. “Now, what was your favorite thing about tonight?”
Chelsea thought for a second. One thing I love about him is that when he’s been drinking, you can almost see the hamsters running on their wheels inside his head when he’s pondering something.
“It was fun to see how in demand George is,” he finally said. “Everyone wants a piece of him.”
I was silent for a moment as George giggled uncomfortably next to me. After living with me on and off for three years, he could smell the coming storm.
“Um, what about me?” I said. “Doesn’t anyone want a piece of me?”
and watched the video, my stomach sank into a pit of embarrassment, and I had to fight not to turn the video off and delete it forever. First, it drove home the fact that my big, gay flame apparently burns exponentially brighter with every drink I have. Not that there’s anything wrong with acting like a big ‘mo, it’s just a little disturbing to see myself affecting the mannerisms of someone who would score an off-the-charts 500 on the Kinsey scale.
More importantly was how entirely incapable I was of reining in the self-centeredness my closest friends know and pretend to love. The concept of someone other than me being “in demand,” even one of my best friends, was so alien to me that night that I almost had a nervous breakdown on film.
I later told my friend Nate about my feelings upon watching the video. He turned out to be the wrong person to go to if I was looking for someone to help repair my fragile ego.
“Aw, you’re self-obsessed and in denial,” he said. “You think you’re butch. How adorable.”
be the one to take it upon himself to knock me off my self-appointed pedestal, as happened a couple days later when I decided to start bragging, this time about how awesome my mom is.
“I’m meeting my mom at a gay bar,” I mass-texted to a bunch of my friends as I drove home to Charlotte for the weekend. “As in, she’s already there waiting for me.”
I thought this information was worth risking the dangers of texting while driving — which, to the chagrin of motorists everywhere, I have long ago embraced as a necessary evil of modern life. It’s always satisfying to make people a little jealous, even given the possibility of fiery death on the interstate.
The majority of responses I got were what I was hoping for, ranging from, “That’s so great!” and, “My mom would never,” to the heart-stopping, “Just pray she’s not hanging out with any of your old tricks.”
I was feeling pretty good about all the mom-envy headed my way, at least until Nate decided to weigh in.
“Seriously, diva, I’m over you and your supermom,” he shot back. “Now ask me about my day, or we’re not friends anymore.”
, I could delete that video, but it wouldn’t make my fears over being too self-obsessed go away. It’s just something I have to learn to make the best of, like the bright and beautiful flame I keep (sort of) hidden away until I have a couple of drinks.
“It’s kind of ironic, actually,” Nate said when I called to ask him about his day and then inevitably turned the conversation around to myself. “I mean, you write a column about yourself. Don’t you get paid to be a little self-obsessed?”
“So you’re saying my job makes it worse?”
“No,” he said. “I’m saying, if you’re going to have a character flaw or two, why not at least get paid for it?”
|
