The Love of Moi

Ever since the creation of the cell phone, taking pictures of yourself has become an obsession.

Most Facebook pages are crammed with selfies.

We are in love with ourselves.

Wherever we are, we want the world to know of our existence.

At the dentist, on safari, on a camel, petting a walrus, catching soap bubbles, or at the vet’s with Psycho.

All of social media is an excuse to be a narcissist.

I noticed even my dermatologist now has a Facebook page. In a way that makes sense since he’s in the beauty business. Tummy tucks and facelifts and such. But I’m sure he’s not the one keeping it current. He has no time with a waiting room full of patients needing Botox injections. Some 18-year old is doing it, probably his granddaughter.

Everyone wants to be famous.

From the bailiff to the zoo keeper.

And that requires a photograph.

The one you take of yourself.

On the way to the liposuction appointment.

Calvin says, “No derm docs for me. My fan page is growing everyday.”

Digging in with My Bare Heels

I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to submit to the full body scanners at the airport.

I’m convinced all that radiation is bad for my health no matter what reassurances we have been given.

So I waited my turn in line, barefooted, beltless and breathless. I moved closer to the dreaded machine.

When it was my turn, I said, “No!” with conviction.

“No?” said the TSA agent.

“Yes, I mean no,” I said.

“It’s the law,” the agent said glaring at me.

“It’s not the law for my health,” I said.

“Very well. That means a pat down,” he said.

“Fine,” I said.

The agent stretched out both arms barring me from moving away and held me there. He called out, “Female agent. Pat down here.”

The other passengers in line were getting free entertainment even before boarding.

I didn’t care.

A female agent appeared. She put on a pair of latex gloves with a fanfare and gave a little snap at the end. It was clear I had interrupted her coffee time.

“This way,” she said and motioned for me to follow her.

“Do you want to do this in a private room or here?” she asked.

“Here,” I said and smiled. I wanted witnesses.

“Very well. First, I have to tell you what I’ll be doing,” she said.

“Skip that. Just do it,” I said. I smiled again.

“I can’t. It’s the law.” Then she slanted her head upwards to show me a camera that was recording everything.

Witnesses! I loved it. I smiled even more.

She asked me to stand with legs apart and arms outstretched.

I complied.

I smiled at my audience in front and above me.

The agent ran her hands all over me, from head to toe, in a professional manner.

“You’re free to go,” she said when she finished and removed her gloves with another snap.

After reading so many horror stories in the media about pat-downs, I was prepared for the worst. Instead I was shocked at how decent an experience it was.

Calvin says, “If that had been me, I would slobbered all over her face.”

How To Do Your Real Work

Every so often I write about resistance. You know, the distractions we give in to that pull us away from our real work.

In my case, it’s writing. In yours it could be designing the next space vehicle.

Whatever your calling is, you’re familiar with the pull to distract.

Distractions allure you. Out of the blue you long to learn Latin. Or free-fall from an airplane. Or take tango lessons in Buenos Aires.

Maybe it’s not such a large vision that compels you to drop what you’re doing. Maybe it’s bull-riding lessons, finger painting, or singing with your canary.

Sometimes the distraction is even closer than that.

Facebook.

Twitter.

Pinterest.

Blogging. (Checking your analytics every hour)

Text messages.

Skype.

Video games.

I could go on, but you catch my drift.

The social media platforms are massive distractions! They will absorb you. Consume you. Smother you.

They also:

Stall you.

Numb you.

Suck your energy.

They’re only a worthwhile investment when you’re building a posse of fans for your work.

Otherwise it’s death to your creativity!

Go on a diet.

Make a pledge to look at these platforms only after you’ve done your work.

Tell a friend to hold you accountable.

And then notice your productivity and creativity soar.

Calvin says, “Yep, when I get pulled off a scent, I end up in a ditch with thorns up my butt.”

Don’t Follow Me

“There’s something intimidating about all this social media stuff,” Mark said over a cup of coffee. “For example, let’s take Twitter. I don’t want to be followed. Who wants to be followed?”

“The younger generation, they love that stuff,” Leslie said as she sipped her double-decaf espresso with a hairline’s worth of foam on top.

“But why?” Mark said.

“It connects them to their friends and family,” she said.

“What’s wrong with the phone or a letter?” Mark said as he sipped his coffee. His coffee was the real kind – strong and black in a cup. No whipped cream. No double shot anything. No flavoring. Just coffee in a real cup.

“Too time consuming. These kids have been raised on instant gratification – from a mother’s breast to tweeting. That’s why these platforms are so popular. There’s no work involved,” Leslie said. She was sporting a miniscule foam mustache on her upper lip. She looked like a milk commercial.

“Too ridiculous for me. I wouldn’t know how to use them anyway,” Mark said.

“Don’t you want to stay connected to me?” Leslie said with a gleam in her eye.

“I thought we were. Twenty years ago when I said, ‘I do.'”

“But you’ve been a bit distant lately,” Leslie said.

“I have?”

“Yes. You’re in your own world. Don’t know what you’re thinking. Makes me nervous.”

“Don’t be. I’m only thinking of you,” Mark said finishing his coffee and putting his cup back on the saucer with a real clink.

They both got up and walked out of the coffee shop.

Suddenly Mark’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and opened it. “Let’s talk about me then,” the text message said.

Calvin says, “All this fuss about connecting. That’s what hounds have been doing for years. It’s called packs. We run and bay and get all sweaty together.”