Another Onion Layer

Bsd
"I should not talk so much about myself if there were anyone else whom I knew as well."
Henry D.Thoreau

I love talking.
The art of conversation is one of which I am a passionate devotee. I cannot even walk alone down the street without carrying on a private dialogue - me and myself, commenting on all and sundry.
I am a good listener as well. People enrapture me. I delight in the nuances of lives, the as yet undisclosed stories that accompany every person. I listen to my friends with care, absorbing their struggles and reciprocating with counsel.
I tell everyone, "If you ever need to talk, I'm here." I tell my friends, "Call me anytime, I'm always up."
I make Shabbos plans, and I ask, "Will there be interesting people there? Stimulating conversation?"
A party is only fun when I find someone to talk to.
I work in a store on Kingston, and after seven months, the only part I still enjoy is the customers. The customers and who they are, whom they know, what they are doing. All the little tidbits of information that together create the tapestry of their lives.

But here's my little secret:
It's all about me.
I love talking about myself.
I know myself well. I've devoted countless hours, endless thoughts to the subject. Figuring out what I feel and think, what I remember and why, what I want and how to get there and if that's really the right thing after all.
I discover new facets of my character and I delight. I gain perspective and I marvel.
And when I talk - I talk about myself.
To friends who might read this - I love you! I listen to you, and I hope that my listening aids you, that my words comfort or entertain you. But there is a niggling portion of my brain that waits until I can comfortably put you aside and move on to a more urgent topic - me.
(Oh G-d, it sounds truly awful when I write it out).
To strangers who might meet me one day - I want to hear your stories of school and friends, the account of your opinions and dreams. They show me who you are, and I relish those discoveries. But there is that piece of my heart that warms only when you laugh at my stories, when you listen to me explain my postions, my plans.
And when it comes to speaking with the male half of the species - my tendency worsens. As I flutter and flirt under a man's attention, there is a gleeful spirit jumping up and down inside me, shrieking, "Whooh boy, he's listening to you talk about yourself! How awesome is that?"
This consternates me, because it leaves me trying figure out how much of an interaction with a man is actually appealing to me, or if I am just an enthusiast responding to an interest in her obsession - herself?

I am being overly critical. I know.
But one of the character traits I most pride myself on is my care and interest in people. And upon realizing that I am not a purely motivated individual, I respond harshly.

So there it is.
Another analysis of myself. Another knot untwisted from the tangle that is me.
And at the next Shabbos meal, when searching for a topic on which to converse, I have yet another rabbit to pull out of the hat.
"Let's talk about how much I love to talk about myself..."