Life: It's Complicated.
No, not in the same way that life is complicated for Meryl Streep in Nancy Meyers' movies, it's complicated in a much less zany and romantic way. For me at least.
I have come to the understanding that I am both an attention whore and an introvert. I like speaking loudly, and constantly when in the company of the six people I know best in the world. When I am around that group, I force my way into being the center of attention by practically taping their mouths shut, tying them to dining room chairs, and tap dancing in front of them. For my poor, unfortunate friends, an evening with me is akin to a kidnapping. But without the warm, pleasant feelings of Stockholm syndrome. I dominate the conversation, steer everything back to myself, and generally make the evening all about me-me-ME! It is really a testament to the strength of my friends' charity that they invite me to do this so often ( and that I have lived with so many of them, without being the victim of a murder) and that I can call this my social life. But like I said, things are more complicated.
You can take me, the same person that wants to tell everyone a story about how he got pinned under his coffee table by his exercise ball (don't ask) and put me in a room of any more than twenty people, and I will become the perennial wall-flower. I run under Queen's rules: I am polite, quiet, respectable, and only speak when spoken to. I would make a perfect chamber maid, but not really then best person to bring along to a gathering of strangers. I am not a social butterfly despite my genetics. Both of my parents know everyone, or can get to know everyone they come into contact with in a matter of minutes. My dad's favorite activity is talking to strangers. On vacation together, it was very apparent that my sister inherited that gene, and that I hadn't. I spoke to her, and she spoke for me. Like Nell, the feral child played by Jodie Foster, I am more at home with my (forest) friends than out in the general public. If I go to a concert I sit quietly with my arms crossed. I don't get up and scream despite everyone around me doing the same thing. But guaranteed that if I was watching a movie at home with my friends I would scream and scream until they begged me to stop.
Having this sort of distorted personality wouldn't be a bad thing if it didn't spill over into other aspects of my life. I could just get a job that allowed me to wear a paper bag over my head when I am out in public (something my brother has suggested I do for years) and have an active social life with the the half dozen or so people that I am comfortable with. But that doesn't really work for me.
I recently submitted my blog to "The Printed Blog", and whether because they are starved for content or could smell my desperation through the internet and decided to throw me a bone, I was added to a list of blogs that they follow. As a whore, that writes on the internet for the simple pleasure of gaining attention, I was elated. But as a person that writes a blog read by maybe the half dozen people mentioned earlier, I practically broke out in hives. Nervous that other people's eyes would fall upon my typo-ridden script, and judge me as both an idiot and vaguely obscene, I could hardly stand to open this post this morning.
So what is the answer? Do I write blogs (and continue to over-exaggerate my own importance to dizzying degrees) and buy some sort of hive-salve and take a valium to get over myself. Or retreat to a life of quiet windmillery?
I just don't know.