Have You Met ‘Mr. Center of the Universe’ Yet?

I needed to get my oil changed this weekend. Actually my wife needed to get the oil changed in her car, but I owed her 40-bucks, so I took her car in and paid to get the oil changed. Now we’re even right? (Actually, we’re even financially, but she owes me an hour and a half of my life back.)

Anyway, I walked in to Lube-o-rama and took my seat in the waiting area with three other men. There was the customary pot of coffee brewed six hours ago, a stack of styrofoam cups, and gumball machine filled with pistachios. How could I resist? I grabbed a cup (didn’t have a quarter for the pistachios). There was a 1984 model TV mounted high in the corner of the room with a baseball game on. All four of us were watching.

One of the guys was working on his laptop and talking on a cell phone (too loudly which I love) while keeping an eye on the game. He was visiting with his wife Sandy at the lake where he was headed next. It was raining up there. She picked up the groceries, but bought the wrong kind of wine. He was stopping at Target before leaving St. Cloud. And no, she hadn’t heard from Dave & Carol yet. You get the picture.

In the middle of his call, laptop on his lap (that’s where it got it’s name), Mr. Center of the Universe grabs the remote and starts channel surfing on the circa 1984 TV at Lube-o-rama. Never mind the fact that there were three others watching the game. WTF? Seriously? Who does that? Mr. Center of the Universe that’s who.

How often do we come across people that plow through the day like they’re the only person on earth? No regard for anyone else around them. Me, me, me. Me, me. (Me, me, me, me me.) Me. Oh, and mine, mine, mine. Drives me nuts!

I see that behavior and point of view in my seven-year old grandson from time to time. I get it. He’s seven. Mr. Center of the Universe should be ashamed at 46-years old. He needs a “time-out.” I can imagine how much Sandy is looking forward to Mr. Center of the Universe’s cabin arrival.

Don’t be that guy. I repeat, do not be that guy! (Seriously, please.)

Now hand me the remote.

Click.