Perhaps

The other morning an angry woman called me at 9:30am. What was she angry about? I had not returned her phone call the night before. Of course, there’s more to it than that. Essentially, her charge was that I rarely ever call, that she is the one constantly pursuing me, asking me out to dinner, inviting herself over for a drink.

I did not argue with her. I sat and listened. I figured if I tried to turn it into a dialogue then it would only get worse. She laid into me for about five minutes. I wanted to scream at her, “I’m obviously not as interested in you as you are in me. Do I need to sit you down and state this implicitly, or are you going to salvage some of your dignity and take the various hints?”

But I didn’t say that. I listened quietly.

“You are so selfish!” she shouted. “Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings besides your own?”

For some reason, this comment struck a chord. It doesn’t take a licensed clinical therapist to know that I am damaged goods, that once upon a time I was quite the romantic, a hard-loving optimist. And you don’t have to be Miss Cleo to see that a series of bad relationships has sucked the sensitivity out of me. So my position on love and sex now, as logical as it may be, is purely reactionary.

But selfish?

I have never wanted to believe that about myself. Perhaps my selfless ways only apply when it's in my benifit, or I deem someone worthy.