Dear Auntie Mac,

A few months ago you gave advice to someone who keeps apologizing for a mistake they made whenever a friend reminds them of it. I have a similar situation with a friend I’ve known since kindergarten who always makes it a point to recount the stupid things I did when I was a teenager to whoever will listen. I would like some advice on a nice way to address this without drawing more attention to the errors of my former ways. He relays these tales in a jokey way, but,

(Sign Me),
I’m Not Laughing

My Dear Neighbor:

Judging from Auntie Mac’s mailbox, it seems that this is the Year of Living Callously—in Hampton and elsewhere. More and more often one finds instances where the feelings of others are not only disregarded, they are not even considered in the quest to place oneself firmly on center stage. This should not be surprising. After all, we now exist, whether we like it or not, in an age where any publicity is good publicity, and many will go out of their way to, as they say, grow a following. It is not enough to merely help an elderly person across the street, rescue a stray kitten, or leap into a steaming pile of rancid watermelons; one must film oneself in the act, as if the main object of living is to attract the most attention. Auntie Mac is still not certain what prize the winner of this competition will receive, but it seems to be drummed into our collective unconscious that being noticed, whatever the cost, is the highest life achievement possible. Those of us with a rather smallish death wish, or a lack of fetid watermelons, must compensate by imagining ourselves marvelous raconteurs, and nothing holds an audience’s attention more than a failure, a misstep, a humiliation. Of course we do not remind our classmates at a reunion of the time we ourselves urinated drunkenly on the soundboard of a Steinway grand at our cousin’s wedding in the Hamptons. Nor do we lean across the Thanksgiving table of a friend’s family and confess to sneaking into their house years ago and shaving the Pekingese. But our friends and loved ones are fair game, props for the true object of the faux-entertainment: the positioning of the teller as the focus of attention and praise. This oft-repeated scenario reminds Auntie Mac of the story of the actor who plays the part of the gravedigger in Hamlet, and at a bar one evening tells the person next to him he’s an actor. “What’s the play?” asks his companion. “Hamlet,” says the actor. “What’s it about?” The actor replies, “It’s about a gravedigger who meets a prince.”

The only way, dear, to address this situation is one I am certain you have already surmised: when next you see your friend you must tell him that you love him to pieces and that you so adore his stories of your collective youth, but those involving your mistakes and embarrassments are hurtful. You realize he certainly does not mean to harm, but you are asking him to please refrain from using your painful past as the vehicle by which he reinforces his own self-worth.

Hmmm. Auntie Mac found herself sliding towards a rather passive-aggressive mud-hole there; please forgive her. She is certain, however, that you will be ever more diplomatic and loving in your address.

Your Auntie Mac