Brag, Brag, Brag
The other day in the supermarket, I ran into a man that I hadn’t seen in a couple of years. We stood in the produce section catching up on things and after a while he suggested we sit in the coffee bar at the front of the store and visit, where it was more comfortable. I agreed. One of his sons, he told me, had landed an incredible job and that particular son’s children were attending a bilingual pre-school. He added that though both were still under the age of five, they were fully fluent in French. When he started to talk about his other son in a similar vein, I nodded politely as he talked on and on but I couldn’t tell you what he said — my brain had switched off at that point. It reminded me of the man who came out to my house last year to give an estimate for a new roof. He looked at the job briefly, then spent an entire hour regaling me with stories both of his daughter who supposedly had a very high-powered job in New York that required traveling to London on a regular basis — and his son, who was a straight-A student at a university and whose greatest challenge appeared to lie in which highly paid job he would take after graduation. That sort of braggy pants attitude doesn’t do much for me and I — anticipating more of the same should he be working here — found someone else to do the roof. I remember telling my good friend Molly who died recently, about my experience with the roofer. According to Molly, at some point in that conversation I should have countered with a sweet smile and the statement, “I’m so proud of my son. I think he’s going to get his ankle monitor off next week.” What a great response — wish I’d thought of it and had the nerve to say it. I sure miss her.