(Who’s book would you rather read? My point exactly…)
I’ve been working on making some new friends. I know it’s hard to believe, but I have a really difficult time meeting new people. I’m very, very awkward in real life. Very. Painful. But the pressure is on now. I still have BF-H, who will always be numero uno in my life, but I’m learning that if I’m walking down the street and H is busy or ill, there aren’t a whole lot of people I can call. (I know a few people reading this who are now offended, but don’t worry, I’m remembering you, there just aren’t very many of you…)
For instance last night my mojo went missing so instead of going to the gym I decided to go to dinner and visit my friends at Bistro du Midi. I texted every person I know and not only did I not find a partner to dine with, I didn’t get any returned texts. Blow. To. The. Ego.
The good news is that I have a met a new friend and things seem to be going well. I feel like I’m dating again. We’ve been out a few times, have lots to talk about, seem to have similar tastes in most things; she smart, cute, well read, comes from a good family. On paper I’d say we’re doing really well. I have even introduced her to H. Big step.
One of the nice things about meeting someone new is that you’re suddenly reminded of all the wonderful things about yourself, the things that your good friends know, but don’t mention to you anymore because the courtship is over. New friends say things like “you are so funny!” or “you have such great style!” and it makes you feel like you’re the hottest shit around. My new friend has been really good for my psyche.
The reason I’m even speaking of my new friend, besides knowing that a blog mention may take us to the next level, is because of a comment she made while we were having drinks a few weeks back. We were talking about blogs (I had yet to share my blog with her, I tend to wait until I know how it will be received) and she mentioned that a friend of hers used to keep a riotously funny blog. Unfortunately her friend was only funny when she was unhappy. Much to the dismay of all her followers she got happy. End of blog.
It’s a terrible thing, hoping that someone will stay unhappy for your benefit, but it’s not uncommon. Just as we all hope to be slighter thinner or better looking than at least one person we know, we can also be selfish with friendships. I’ve hoped that friends would stay in jobs they hated so that I could continue to get the perks. (Namely the hubs…) I’ve even found myself resentful when friends “do what’s best for them” and take a job that alters my ability to see them regularly, or affects their lifestyle (and in turn mine). It doesn’t make me evil, it makes me human. A little bitchy maybe, perhaps a touch unsupportive, yes, but not evil…
At any rate, I am intimately aware of the inverse relationship between unhappiness and good blog fodder. Some of my best blog posts are the ones where I come off like a pariah. I’ve always subscribed to the belief that people, namely women, do not want to read about some skinny girl with a fabulous life, delicious husband, and cush job. That will do nothing but incite a riot resulting in boycotting. On the other hand, a blog that pokes fun at other people’s shortcomings is the express train to having thousands of people let you know exactly what they don’t like about you. People like to read about people that make them look healthier, thinner, saner, and smarter. Hence, The Half Truth. What could possibly make you feel better than reading about my epic day-to-day failures and inability to navigate interpersonal relationships? Nothing I can think of.
Unfortunately my life isn’t really that interesting. And while I love to talk about how much I dislike myself, now that I’ve taken the bulk of my “I’m married! Weeeee!” weight off, it’s a little cruel to talk about my resemblance to a hippo. (Mostly to other people, I don’t mind calling myself a Hippo…) Plus there’s nothing fun about talking about working out once you’re pretty good at it. Wanna talk about the six miles I sweated out on the treadmill? Probably not. Maybe the yoga class I did today? Nope. What about the heavy girl with the tramp stamp downward dogging next to me? See. You want me to tell that story.
So where does this leave me? I think if I want to get a book deal I have to get fat. I’m miserable which translates to funny. I’m uncomfortable, which gives me excellent material for visuals, and I pretty much hate everyone so I have no problem picking on pretty people, thin people, fit people, athletic people, or my very favorite, thin and stupid people. God how I love a good thin stupid person. As an added bonus I love blaming my problems on other people, so there will be the added suspense and week-to-week questioning over whether or my marriage will survive. Or maybe if the hubs will slit my throat in my sleep. Always a possibility.
I think of it like this: if I had to read a book about written by a contestant on The Biggest Loser I would much rather read about a 600lb woman trying to stay on a treadmill for six minutes than an empowering ghostwritten piece of nonsense about how if they can, anyone can. Puhlease.