I’ll bet you think this song is about you. Don’t you? Don’t you?

In the days when dinosaurs ruled the earth – scratch that – in the days before time began, before anything in the universe ever happened, before Star One blinked into existence in the Heavens and the galaxies coalesced into being, before Big Bang, Creation, or Choose-Your-Own-Adventure-Theory of How Life Began…

That is, before my kids began Life – because, of course, nothing happened before the Movie Of Their Lives, Starring Them, with Us as Extras and Cameo Players began rolling in the Great Projection Room of the Universe – just as schoolteachers live in the classrooms and have ABSOLUTELY NO BUSINESS in 7-11, EVER, and doctors do not have FIRST NAMES so PLEASE stop calling Dr. Lynch “Patty,” MOM.

Back in THOSE days… I once knew a gentleman “of a certain age” who was, shall we say, rather confident in his appearance. So confident in his appearance was he that he made regular trips to the beauty parlor – oops, I mean, salon – more often than I have in my life, probably, and to his credit, he was fairly on target.

He was a looker, particularly for his age. He definitely didn’t look his age, that’s for sure, so when his sixtieth – count ’em, sixtieth – high school reunion came around, it was all he could talk about.

All… he… could… talk… about.

“Do you think they’ll think I look all right? I look all right, don’t I? For a guy my age?”

Glassy-eyed, I came to, sipped my house white and nodded as brightly as I could. At last, I could take no more, and finally said quietly: “I bet you think this song is about you. Don’t you? Don’t you?”

He looked at me, puzzled for a minute, then gave me the pouty face, but he did have a sense of humor, and gave it a rest.

Happy ending, though: he WAS the coolest, thinnest, hippest guy there – with the thickest natural head of hair. So he earned it. The song really WAS about him.

So I thought of him today, when I had to drive forty highway minutes and accidentally left the makeup mirror down on my sunvisor, and kept catching a view of myself.

Dang, I thought to myself. “Who’s that pretty girl in that mirror there?”

“Who could that attractive girl be?”

Humming the tune from West Side Story, since I didn’t know the words, I broke out when I got to the part: “And I pity… any girl… who isn’t me… today…” ad-libbing: “Because she didn’t get the great results on her split ends with Citri-Shine that I did…”

So today, the song was all about me. Which, of course, no one at all noticed. Which, of course, was fine, because my philosophy is always that the only person who needs to be really pleased with you is YOU.

Taking THAT one step further, I did realize how very ridiculous I was, being so very pleased with myself and all, so I decided I would, for a change, make fun of my OWN vanity on a global scale, since I poke fun of everyone else, and I would take a picture of myself, looking at myself, in the car sunvisor – which turned out to be extraordinarily difficult.

So I came inside and took some more pictures of myself inside, which was even MORE vain of me, so I’m posting them, too, so you can all have a good laugh at me.

Still: you have to admit: it’s a fairly good hair day, despite the frumpy sweater.