Mine

Fact:  I am an only child
Another fact:  This is a fact that most people are flabbergasted by.
Let me demonstrate-
Me:  "I am an only child."
Not me:  "You're kidding?  I never would've guessed."
The above conversation is a true story.  Typically when people come to light of the fact that I am a lone child, they are stunned.  Amazed.  Bamboozeled.  When people are surprised by this piece of information, I usually have a follow-up statement and/or question of:  "It's because I'm so amazing, isn't it?  You would've guessed by my humble demeanor that I come from a Duggar household.  You assumed that I was at least child number three, because I don't seem bratty.  Or self-entitled.  Or needy, like a middle child."  (Sorry you middle children, but Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.)  I am a rare breed.  Both because I am an only child, and I am all of the wonderful things that I have listed previously.  Kind of.... You see, I am a giver of my time, my hugs, my wit and charm.  But there is one aspect of my singleness that does demonstrate that I am, indeed, a lone spawn.  I hate sharing.  Hate. It.  And I completely blame my mother. :)  Mom Dukes never really encouraged the whole "sharing" thing.  She always figured that since I was an only child, I should be able to reap some of the rewards.  I never had a brother or sister to rip toys from their hands, or have to fight over who gets what.  It was always mine.  I can vividly remember Christmases at my house, and I would hold my breath and have a mini melt-down over the fact that someone was touching my new Barbie.  I would pile my loot and put all of the extra-special things in the back of the tree, where no one could get their grubby little paws on them.  Even though I would never really say anything to anyone, I would be watching them like a hawk, and thinking to myself, "I swear to the Heavens that if anyone, anyoneeeeeee, pushes that pop-o-matic bubble too hard on my new game of Trouble, I will pop them."  I'm sure it must've been pretty entertaining (or irritating) for my family to watch a neurotic six year old lose her shiz over the fact that someone was manhandling something that wasn't theirs.  I wish I could say that I have outgrown this tendency of selfishness, but alas, I haven't.  I still have a difficult time sharing any of my goods.  Now don't get me wrong, I do share, but on the inside I am sweating bullets and having a total conniption fit.  The thoughts of, "If you break it/ruin it/mess it up, I will squish you," comes to mind.  There is a pot 'o gold at the end of this rainbow, though.  I find the older you get, the less you actually have to share.  The only time that I am reminded of my embedded selfishness is when Lenny and I get Fat Kid Food-aka take out-and he plunges his hand into the bag and starts grabbing random fries.  That are probably from my fry container.  You would have thought that the man was about to steal a kidney without permission.  I seethe with irritation, all the while trying to seem nonchalant, but manage to say through clenched teeth, "You better keep those lady fingers out of my fry box."  Okay, maybe I'm not so nonchalant about it, and maybe I've not only effectively demonstrated that I don't like to share, but I can also behave like a total fat a**.
In conclusion, I think it's fair to say that I am the Captain of the 'S.S. It's Mine-ow', and really have no qualms about it.  Share a hug?  Sure.  Share my sticks of delicious Idaho goodness? Get your own. :)