Humblebragging does not always neccessarily come from a bad place.  Perhaps it is the way women are socialized since birth, but we are usually much more comfortable at the humble part and the bragging part usually comes later. (I am grossly generalizing here of course)  It tends to be the opposite for guys.  What probably started at its root as a means of ensuring that it was their sperm that’s had pieces published in the New Yorker and whose film was even at Sundance (short film, but come on, let’s not split hairs) that would be the one fertilizing the best looking, most well accomplished eggs.  So it should not rankle me and make me as blind with rage as it does considering the vast amount of braggers I encounter daily.  Whereas with most other careers, your job title or company/ start-up you work for will convey much, people in the arts rather than saying “freelance” which makes them sound like any other struggling person, will brag and boast and list all their credits.  Don’t guys understand that they should just play it cool, for girls usually will find it all out through friends or facebook anyway?  The thing that particularly kills me about guy humblebraggers is that they are so bad at it, and usually all but forget the humble part entirely and just end up bragging all over you.   

I arrived early to a show I was in the other night and sat at the bar.  There was one other person at the bar as well – a guy roughly around my age.   Hoodie, angry beard – the usual.  Thirty seconds passed when he emitted this loud guttural sound. 

“AHHHHHH.  I have so many emails it’s ridiculous!  I’m a sound designer here.”  he complained.   This tone of voice sounded familiar.  It was the exact same pitch and tenor  I have when I complain loudly about how sore I am after a gentle yoga class just so people know I did, in fact, work out.

“Ahh work emails?” 

“Work/personal.  People are emailing me about April, it’s like – let me just get through this week first.”  Hmm, I myself like to book things out, and my pet peeve is when I’m emailing about shows and someone responds “Email me again as we get closer.”  It makes me feel like Lloyd Christmas.  “Do you think you’re free to tech for next month’s show?  Ok, I can check in with you in a couple weeks… I’ll just not cross it off my to- do list, but then add it to next week’s to do list as well.  But if you had to, are you telling me there’s a chance?  Just – this is funny – I got a missed call from a private number and thought it might be you, so I wanted to get back to you… Ah, it wasn’t!  Ok, I will check back in next week then!”  The worst.

“That sucks.  At least we have a long weekend with Monday off.”   He gave me an eyeroll I can only describe as what I might look like when I visit my parents and try to convince them we should go to an authentic local restaurant instead of a chain.   

“OK.  In the arts we don’t get things like President’s Day off.”  I haven’t wanted to be disassociated so strongly with a group of people since we first found out about the Madoffs.  I rolled my eyes (but not too obviously because I didn’t know if he was doing the sound for the show I was about to be in).  I returned to my notes and was contemplating if I should bring my coat and bag in the bathroom with me or if he was trustworthy enough to watch it, when he interrupted-

“OMG!!!!!”

“What happened?”

“Yoko Ono’s birthday!   I completely forgot about it.  It’s gonna be so fun!”  This I couldn’t take.  Be bad about returning emails?  Fine.  Insinuate I’m not an artist?  Well, I’m wearing my particularly edgy outfit from Ann Taylor, with certain accessories even from Urban Outfitters, but OK, you just don’t get me.  But I had enough.

“Yoko?” I made the same face guys make when I tell them I still listen to Wilson Phillips.  “I’m not sure if you heard.  But she split the Beatles up and left Ringo to a career of PBS and performing in state fairs.  Terrible.”  He gave me the same Wilson Phillips look I just gave him.  “One sec – gotta go to the bathroom before the show, just gonna grab my stuff…”