[dropcap]Y[/dropcap]ou’re a narcissistic idiot,” said my loving wife.
I was busted. She caught me in the garage behaving like a teenager – No, no I wasn’t doing that, get your mind out of the gutter.
What I mean is, I had finagled my camera so that it could be utilized in a hands-free manner of operation.
My phone was mounted from the ceiling, dangling by a collection of spring clamps, mechanic’s wire, two bungee cords, some silly putty, and a bottle of maple syrup. After a few moments of engineering, voila, I had a professional selfie-machine. One that would’ve make the Kardashian’s envious.
“Why are you taking selfies?” she asked.
“If Tom Brady can do it, why can’t I?”
“Who’s Tom Brady?”
“I don’t understand,” Jamie folded her arms across her chest, “Why didn’t you just ask me to take the picture for you? I was in the other room.”
Jamie, Jamie, Jamie,” I patted her shoulder. “If I had you take the photo, I couldn’t call it a selfie, not with a clear conscience.”
“Look, I don’t want to start lying on Facebook – it’s frowned upon.”