The first time I called myself a narcissist was for two reasons:
Because I’m terribly vain. Because I thought people would get the hint, and be forced to look at themselves
I thought the logic was smart, but it didn’t work out as I’d planned.
People never got the hint (Hey, it’s actually YOU I’m talking about!) and I still stayed terribly vain. However, now I’m being called a narcissist. While the fact that I have such a characteristic is undeniable; the possibility of others possessing the same trait can’t be denied.
But again, my writing wouldn’t be relevant if I didn’t dare say the things most people thought but were too scared to say.
And now comes the blog:
I (notice every sentence starts with an “I”. Big red flag.) was at the celebration of the National Day of a certain country. The event took place at the famous Library of Congress, right on Capitol Hill. (Close to where the American Congress is…for those who are from out of town). It was a gorgeous building and a true blessing to being given the opportunity to go to such a fabulous event with great food.
There were lots of people and many of them were ambassadors (God, I love them!) and other humans. Some aristocrats, a few lawyers (They’re easy to spot since they’re so scared and reserved), some investors and other unidentified species. I was enjoying myself with the detachment of a former CIA operative who can now relax and write books.
I took a sip of my water and I must’ve looked important as I get my first ambush.
“Hello, I think we have met before at blah blah…”
Typical for Washington, D.C. You think that someone can make you money, invest in your business, give loads of money to your charity or sponsor your event, so you jump in their faces telling them you know them.
I gladly fell for the bait, especially since hardly ANYONE ever approaches me. I’m too blonde and too married.
“Yes, I remember,” I said, with a smile knowing I never remember anyone unless I get a very strong emotional input from them.
The minuscule presence with crooked teeth and dirty tie goes on telling me about an economic project of his that I don’t understand at all.
“I see,” I said.
“It’s a very unique project because…”
Technical words were tornados in my ears.
I smelled his bad breath and I was thinking that he was such a nice guy. He was a kind person, with a soft voice, trying to sell me something I don’t understand. I don’t have the heart to waste his time, so I told him that truthfully I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Then, let me call you and we can set up a meeting. Why don’t you invite me to your office and my colleague and I will give you a presentation? Give me your business card,” he answered hastily.
I took another sip of water before I reached into my Fendi purse. I felt bad for the purse. Few people knew it was a Fendi and it held a few poorly made cards. Only with my name and my website.
I reluctantly gave one to the dirty tie man.
He looks at it and obviously not seeing anything that could benefit him or his colleague, or their highway in Chile, he reached out for his glasses.
He looked carefully at the card then looked up to me (I was much taller on heels) and finally asked the fatal question.
“So what do you do?”
“I’m a professional trophy wife,” I said candidly with my best rehearsed dumb smile my Botox face would allow me to make.
And I left his bad breath there, holding on to that cheap card that read: Ioana Lee. Nobody.
