Lego Karen

   Over the last few years my son has been selling some of his “retired” toys on eBay. Lego kits, Nerf guns, and the like. Kid stuff that’s been shelved as he’s gotten older.
 
   I have a few treasure-hunter friends that cringe at the mere thought of this, as they are members of a generation that’s seen their favorite old toys from the 70s come to be worth a zillion dollars, and regret not hanging on to their old stuff. But I’m all for my son doing the eBay thing.

   My son’s little side hustle is teaching him some valuable lessons, I think. There are the earning-an-honest-buck aspects, of course. But, perhaps most importantly: It’s teaching him to let go of stuff that no longer serves him.
 
   There have been some bonus lessons along the way as well. For instance, here’s a recent zinger:
 
   Back in late February my son sold a Lego kit to a woman way out West. It was an eBay sale like any other. My son closed the deal, boxed and shipped the kit out, pocketed some dough, and that was that. Or so we assumed.
 
   Fast forward four months. On June 27th, an eBay message came in from the buyer. Here’s what it said”
 
I bought this Lego set for my son and saved it for a special event. He just opened it this last weekend and the set is missing some pieces. They are all small and nothing special/too expensive. I can order them from bricklink and it will cost me around $7 with shipping. You need to refund me that amount. If you would prefer, I can actually put in the order and give you an exact amount to refund. Just let me know either way.
 
   My son and I had a little talk about what to do.
 
   On one hand, my son advertised the kit as “complete,” so the buyer has a valid complaint.
 
   On the other hand, it’s an annoyingly persnickety demand. This person purchased the Lego kit four months ago for $120, and is now feeling the need to make a stink about a few dollars’ worth of common parts.
 
   I asked my son to imagine himself in the buyer’s shoes, and asked him what he would do. My son answered, “Dad, if that was me, I don’t think I’d make a fuss about it. I would just buy the extra pieces myself and not bother anybody about it. And then I’d enjoy my new Lego kit and get on with my life.”
 
   I told my son that I would feel exactly the same way. “However,” I told him, “it appears that your buyer feels differently. What do you suggest we do about it? Should we just tell her to suck it up, buttercup?”
 
   My son thought about it for a minute, and then said, “I think I should offer to reimburse her for the missing pieces. But it feels kinda weird. Do you think it’s weird?”
 
   “Yeah, it’s definitely a little weird. She has a tone,” I said. “But I think you’re right. Let’s reimburse her.”
 
   So, here’s the reply message that my son and I crafted:
 
Sorry to learn that there were some missing pieces in the Lego kit.
I'll refund you the approximately $7 cost that you spend to make things right.
The easiest way to pay you would be through Paypal.
I would just need the exact amount and the email address you use for Paypal.
 
   The buyer swiftly replied as follows:
 
I ordered the pieces and it came out to $6.44. Pay me as soon as possible. My paypal email address is ____.
 
   I have a Paypal account, so I made the payment on behalf of my son, and my son paid me back out of his lawn-mowing earnings. We shook hands and mutually expressed our hope that this would close the saga.
 
   Interestingly, after I made the payment, a little bubble appeared in Paypal with a thumbnail picture of the woman who received the funds. Her profile picture is exactly as you might imagine. It’s a selfie-style head shot of her and her husband (I'm assuming), with what appears to be a hiking trail in the background. They look to be in their early 40s. They’re both sporting Patagonia jackets and smug half-smiles.
 
   I had to show my son.
 
   “She’s a Karen,” my son said, matter-of-factly, when he saw the photo.
 
   “What’s that mean?” I asked.
 
   “Oh, you know,” my son replied. “A Karen. She thinks she’s a cop.”
 
   That was a pretty good answer, I thought. Here’s how Wikipedia defines a Karen:
 
Karen is a pejorative term used as slang for a middle-class white woman who is perceived as entitled or demanding beyond the scope of what is normal. . . . a Karen's defining characteristics are a sense of entitlement, a willingness and desire to complain, and a self-centered approach to interacting with others. . . . a Karen "demands the world exist according to her standards with little regard for others, and she is willing to risk or demean others to achieve her ends."
 
   “OK,” I said to my son. “Here’s a question: Did we do the right thing in paying her? I mean, did we just encourage Karen’s Karenness?”
 
   “I think we did the right thing,” he answered. “I mean, I’ve met a lot of other Karens. And you probably have, too, right, dad?”
 
   “Sure. I’ve met a few.” I chuckled. “They seem to be lurking around every corner these days.”
 
   “Well, when you go up against Karens, it’s usually pretty rough, right? Like, you can tell that they’re really into the fight. Like they really enjoy fighting with people.”
 
   “Yeah. I think that’s about right,” I answered.
 
   “Well, dad, then let's look at it this way: We paid six bucks to stop Lego Karen from picking a fight. That’s a double win for us. We didn’t have to fight her, which would have sucked for us. And we denied her the chance to practice her fighting skills, which’ll help the next poor guy that comes along. Six bucks is pretty cheap. That’s cheaper than going to a movie.”
 
  My son is fourteen – soon to be fifteen. Gulp. When a boy gets to that age, there of tons of things a father might choose to worry about. Driving. Girls. Booze. Drugs. Heck, the whole State of the World. But there’s at least one thing I’m not worried about. I think my kid has a pretty good jump on the people game.
 
– O.M. Kelsey