Attention whore

I have a confession to make to everyone: I am an attention whore. Please look at me.

I love to be noticed. It's the remedy for what ails me. You see, as New Jerseyans, we live like ships at sea, warmed by the same sun, cooled by the same breeze and lashed by the same storm as our fellows, but so absorbed in our day-to-day that we rarely notice the others on the same voyage with us.

Sometimes the heartache and the isolation are too much, and I risk running the ships together. I get up on stage in front of dozens of strangers and pretend I belong there. I meet a friend for coffee, or invite people to celebrate my birthday with me. I even spend time with my kids.

Nine years ago, my daughter and I took her sister to school and then walked home in broad daylight. We sang. We laughed. Look at me! I fairly shouted. Someone please pay attention! And someone did. We weren't even halfway home before a police car pulled up beside me and an officer demanded to see my driver's license.

Someone had called the police in a panic to report that a brown-haired man in his late 30s was luring away a young blond preschooler.

I had been noticed.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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(I told this one before.)