I was walking and talking with a friend, R, one morning after dropping the rug rats off at school. We were chatting about women we know and telling each other funny stories. Fine, we were gossiping. Anyhow, as I listened, I realized that at one time or another, both she and I had found ourselves embarrassingly associated with a pack of Cougars getting their prowl on. The Urban Dictionary defines a Cougar as "a 35+ year old female who is on the "hunt" for a much younger, energetic, willing-to-do-anything male. The cougar can frequently be seen in a padded bra, cleavage exposed, propped up against a bar... waiting, watching, calculating; gearing up to sink her claws into an innocent young and strapping buck who happens to cross her path."
My Cougar association was unintentional. In R's case, she knew what she was getting into because she gets invited on an annual weekend-long "girls' trip" with a particular group of ladies, and has elected to go on several of them. Though R herself is in no way a Cougar (and neither were a couple of the other women on her trip), she pretty much knew what to expect and was even a little fascinated watching some of these ladies sink fully into their "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" personas, regardless of the fact that they were in Phoenix or Dallas or San Diego.
My story goes like this. One Spring night last year, I found myself suddenly free on a Friday evening when my kids got an impromptu spend-the-night invitation from their Grandma. It's not even really necessary that she ask me whether it's okay that they come over because the answer is an automatic "yes" as far as I'm concerned. So the kids took off, and I started casting about to see what my options for the evening might be. About three calls in, I found myself striking out amongst my friends in the not-so-fast Mom crowd that I run with, spontaneity being nigh on impossible for most of them. But I am nothing if not persistent, and I was determined to find someone to hang out with, because since Steve was already tied up with his own plans, about the last thing I wanted to do was sit around planless and pathetic in my quiet house.
I tried a divorced friend of mine whose kids were with her ex-husband that night to see what she had on tap. She said she was going to go have drinks and dinner with a girlfriend (whom I knew as well, didn't love, but could tolerate) and a couple of her friend's friends (whom I didn't know at all) at a Mexican restaurant in Buckhead, and encouraged me to come along. I had never been there and didn't know anything about the place really, but a margarita and a patio sounded like a good plan to me, so off I went.
I showed up at the appointed hour, and a quick glance toward the packed patio coupled with the fact that it took the sweat-soaked, frantic valet a full five minutes to get to my car so I could hand over the keys as I waited just feet from the door clued me in that this place was clearly a scene for the young singles in the area. See, I'm usually home wrestling my way through the bedtime routine with the kids by seven on a Friday night, so I had no idea that this restaurant was a typical booze-soaked first stop for the young professionals trying to secure that night's hook-up. The bar thing was never my scene when I was young and single, so being in the midst of one as a married 40-year-old left me immediately feeling a little weird. But I pushed through my wariness and met our group at the bar.
Perfunctory introductions were made while we waited for the bartender to notice that we needed drinks and learned from the hostess that it would be at least 45 minutes before a table was likely to open. Here's a thumbnail sketch of our happy little group: me: 40 and married; my friend: 38 and divorced with a serious boyfriend; my acquaintance: 40-plus, aura of bitterness, unmarried and REALLY wanting to change that (I'm fairly sure I know why that hasn't happened yet); her friend #1: 40ish, recently divorced, on a mission to find a replacement; and her friend #2: 40-plus, single and pleasant, and definitely looking for a boyfriend. Aside from my unremarkable outfit, the "uniform" of the group was mostly trendy sandals, tight designer jeans, and clingy shirts with plunging necklines. Mostly I passed the time just talking with my friend while the other ladies talked to each other without making any actual eye contact because they were busy scanning the faces of every guy who walked by.
We finally got to our table, which to the delight of at least sixty percent of our party was directly in the middle of the patio and completely walled in by a sea of people throwing back margaritas and shots and chatting loudly. It was fantastic people watching. I watched the slow turning of the heads of the prowling contingent of ladies at our table as they visually swept the room flashing eager smiles while sipping their drinks, chair-dancing to the beat of the background music, and sizing up the male potential, or avoiding the gaze of those males whose potential they had some history of having already sampled and found lacking. With dawning realization, I felt the blood start to creep up my neck and face as it occurred to me that I had managed to secure myself a seat at what definitely looked like a table full of Cougars. Sweet Jesus!
I mentally smacked myself for not recognizing the situation sooner, and promised to get out of there as quickly as was politely possible after eating, which as it turned out took more than a full hour. Why, you ask, was this making me wish with all my might that I had powers of invisibility that I could invoke at that very moment? I mean, relax, right? Well, if you know anything about Cougars (e.g. any episode of Real Housewives of Wherever), watching women who are past their prime roll up into a bar and try to compete with twenty-somethings for the attention of men is just plain cringe-worthy. Their perfume, a combination of desperation and trying-way-too-hard, swirls around them and announces their presence to the room. And they are almost always oblivious to the fact they are being laughed at rather than laughed with. Oh, and because the younger women usually attract the "prime" quality men in the room, the douchebags are drawn to the older, hungry ladies like a devoted cheapskate to a 1/2 price sale at the dollar store. This night was no exception I realized as I watched one of the women at our table happily being chatted up by this guy that I recognized from high school. He was a d-bag back then, and it certainly appeared that nothing substantive had changed in the 20 years since I'd last seen him.
So, yeah, I was embarrassed because I just didn't want people to look at our table and take me (a happily married, trying-to-age-gracefully, average 40-year-old woman) for a Cougar. When I finally got out of there, I went home and told Steve all about the evening. He laughed and in his typical good-natured way gave me some funny angles from which to view the evening. And in that moment, I thanked my lucky stars that I was married to this great guy and that I didn't have to navigate the tricky waters of dating in my forties. And lest you think I am a complete jerk, let me just say that I felt for my friends and acquaintances that night. I can't believe they really enjoy the effort it takes to try and bag a new guy at that age any more than I imagine I would.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
This One Goes Out To The One I Love (It's mushy. Consider yourself warned.)
On July 1st, my husband Steve and I celebrated 20 years as a couple. He is without a shadow of a doubt the love of my life. I learned long ago that letting go of expectations and efforts to control a situation often leads to a much better outcome than anything I could design. That bore out in 1990 when what started as a reluctant blind date (I only consented after being told it wasn't a date), with a guy who was secretly hoping to meet a tall brunette (I'm a petite blond), turned out to be an essential fork in the road of my life that I have looked back on over the years with shaky relief that I managed not to miss it.
Like any couple two decades in, we've grown used to each others' habits, insecurities, quirks, charms, etc. We've learned to focus attention on the things we like about each other, and to have a reasonable perspective about the things we find irritating. For example, I overlook his habit of almost always dropping his clothes on the floor two feet from the hamper, and focus instead on what a stellar husband, father and all-around great guy he is. I'm not sure exactly how exhaustive the list of things he overlooks in me is, but I will just say that patience is one of his best qualities.
I think our relationship works as well as it does because we really like each other. We also respect each other, give each other room to be individuals, and we talk, about everything. If something is coming between us, we hash it out and listen to what the other has to say. Sometimes one of us grudgingly comes around to the other's point of view. Sometimes, we just maintain our positions while appreciating the fact that we understand each other's rationale or inherent wackiness a little better. We compromise if possible, and adapt and move on when it isn't. All of these seem to be key ingredients to engineering a relationship that's built to last, but there is another really important element, and that is making a concerted effort not to take each other for granted.
With everyone tending to full slates of obligations that require a "divide and conquer" mentality, it's far too easy to slip into phoning it in where a relationship is concerned. Why is it that when everyone says "it's the little things in life that are important", it turns out to be the little things that are the first to go when we get busy? When we mostly see each other at the groggy edges of the day, I sometimes forget to pause, really look at S, appreciate him for all that's wonderful about him, and then to do the most important part, tell him that I noticed. And just as it's important for me to take care of myself, it's equally important that I do my part to take care of us as a couple. I once heard someone say that whatever you focus your attention on becomes the most important thing to you. It's so true.
EVERYONE wants to be adored. I think that all any of us want is a partner who sees us, knows us, understands us, and lets us know from time to time that they took a few minutes out of their day to pay us some small kindness as a nod to the fact that we matter to them. While Steve and I have regular date nights where we can escape being parents for a little while and take time just for us, I wanted to dedicate this post to him because not only is this my small kindness for him today, it's a permanent record of how I love him and how important he is to me. It's my open love letter to him.
The day after our wedding, I told S that marrying him was the best decision I had ever made. That remains true today. I've never met any man that I would rather be with than him. That is the straight up truth, and I hope each of you feel the same way about your current partner or the one you find in the future. When we met, it was immediately obvious that he was different than the guys I had dated. He was sweet and attentive, quick to laugh and funny, polite and well-mannered, and just "good people", if you know what I mean. He was tall, cute, and slightly gawky - a preppy geek. He was such a far cry from the "bad boys" that I was drawn to at the time that he took a little getting used to, but it didn't really take long for me to start appreciating how great it was to be with a capital N nice guy.
Here's what I want you to know about this man. Of all the human beings that I have met in my life thus far, he falls into the extremely rare category of "good to the core". His integrity is beyond reproach. He is honestly one of the nicest people I know (nicer than I am, for sure). If a friend, or even an acquaintance, needs something, Steve is often the first person to step up and offer help. His generosity astonishes me, whether he's giving time, money, a shoulder to cry on, his effort, his labor, he goes all in, again and again and again. He's very comfortable in his own skin, so much so that I've never seen him succumb to the urge to take someone else down a notch to make a point, even when he would be completely justified in doing so. It takes a really big person, emotionally speaking, to operate that way. He is FUNNY and witty, and only growing more so with age. He makes me laugh a lot, and that is a beautiful thing. His humor is never cruel, and he has a gift for telling the unpopular truth in an amusing way so that it can be heard without hurt. And as if that weren't enough, he is really smart. At 42, he still has boyish good looks, but to me, he's more handsome than ever these days, and I think that is because all of these other amazing qualities are what the physical package is wrapped around, and there is no denying how appealing it all is when considered together.
If I've given the impression that the past twenty years have been a complete bed of roses, let me clarify. Much of the time has been great, some of it has been mediocre, some of it has been hard as hell with tears, frustration, and heated arguments. But the thing is that a relationship is the proving ground where you test every supposed enlightened thing about yourself. After all, how enlightened really is the Buddhist monk who can only be peaceful when sitting alone and unprovoked in a cave? And if there is one major lesson I've learned from all of this, it's that anything really worth having, is worth the hard work it takes to get it and to hold on to it.
When I've had a tough day and he showers me with a little of his sticky-sweet adoration, it feels like he's just thrown a life preserver in my direction that lands within arms length just in time. I can barely believe that I am the one he chose to love. The power of having that one person in your life who is completely, dependably, happily in your corner rooting for you can not be underestimated. I hope you have such a person in your life too.
Like any couple two decades in, we've grown used to each others' habits, insecurities, quirks, charms, etc. We've learned to focus attention on the things we like about each other, and to have a reasonable perspective about the things we find irritating. For example, I overlook his habit of almost always dropping his clothes on the floor two feet from the hamper, and focus instead on what a stellar husband, father and all-around great guy he is. I'm not sure exactly how exhaustive the list of things he overlooks in me is, but I will just say that patience is one of his best qualities.
I think our relationship works as well as it does because we really like each other. We also respect each other, give each other room to be individuals, and we talk, about everything. If something is coming between us, we hash it out and listen to what the other has to say. Sometimes one of us grudgingly comes around to the other's point of view. Sometimes, we just maintain our positions while appreciating the fact that we understand each other's rationale or inherent wackiness a little better. We compromise if possible, and adapt and move on when it isn't. All of these seem to be key ingredients to engineering a relationship that's built to last, but there is another really important element, and that is making a concerted effort not to take each other for granted.
With everyone tending to full slates of obligations that require a "divide and conquer" mentality, it's far too easy to slip into phoning it in where a relationship is concerned. Why is it that when everyone says "it's the little things in life that are important", it turns out to be the little things that are the first to go when we get busy? When we mostly see each other at the groggy edges of the day, I sometimes forget to pause, really look at S, appreciate him for all that's wonderful about him, and then to do the most important part, tell him that I noticed. And just as it's important for me to take care of myself, it's equally important that I do my part to take care of us as a couple. I once heard someone say that whatever you focus your attention on becomes the most important thing to you. It's so true.
EVERYONE wants to be adored. I think that all any of us want is a partner who sees us, knows us, understands us, and lets us know from time to time that they took a few minutes out of their day to pay us some small kindness as a nod to the fact that we matter to them. While Steve and I have regular date nights where we can escape being parents for a little while and take time just for us, I wanted to dedicate this post to him because not only is this my small kindness for him today, it's a permanent record of how I love him and how important he is to me. It's my open love letter to him.
The day after our wedding, I told S that marrying him was the best decision I had ever made. That remains true today. I've never met any man that I would rather be with than him. That is the straight up truth, and I hope each of you feel the same way about your current partner or the one you find in the future. When we met, it was immediately obvious that he was different than the guys I had dated. He was sweet and attentive, quick to laugh and funny, polite and well-mannered, and just "good people", if you know what I mean. He was tall, cute, and slightly gawky - a preppy geek. He was such a far cry from the "bad boys" that I was drawn to at the time that he took a little getting used to, but it didn't really take long for me to start appreciating how great it was to be with a capital N nice guy.
Here's what I want you to know about this man. Of all the human beings that I have met in my life thus far, he falls into the extremely rare category of "good to the core". His integrity is beyond reproach. He is honestly one of the nicest people I know (nicer than I am, for sure). If a friend, or even an acquaintance, needs something, Steve is often the first person to step up and offer help. His generosity astonishes me, whether he's giving time, money, a shoulder to cry on, his effort, his labor, he goes all in, again and again and again. He's very comfortable in his own skin, so much so that I've never seen him succumb to the urge to take someone else down a notch to make a point, even when he would be completely justified in doing so. It takes a really big person, emotionally speaking, to operate that way. He is FUNNY and witty, and only growing more so with age. He makes me laugh a lot, and that is a beautiful thing. His humor is never cruel, and he has a gift for telling the unpopular truth in an amusing way so that it can be heard without hurt. And as if that weren't enough, he is really smart. At 42, he still has boyish good looks, but to me, he's more handsome than ever these days, and I think that is because all of these other amazing qualities are what the physical package is wrapped around, and there is no denying how appealing it all is when considered together.
If I've given the impression that the past twenty years have been a complete bed of roses, let me clarify. Much of the time has been great, some of it has been mediocre, some of it has been hard as hell with tears, frustration, and heated arguments. But the thing is that a relationship is the proving ground where you test every supposed enlightened thing about yourself. After all, how enlightened really is the Buddhist monk who can only be peaceful when sitting alone and unprovoked in a cave? And if there is one major lesson I've learned from all of this, it's that anything really worth having, is worth the hard work it takes to get it and to hold on to it.
When I've had a tough day and he showers me with a little of his sticky-sweet adoration, it feels like he's just thrown a life preserver in my direction that lands within arms length just in time. I can barely believe that I am the one he chose to love. The power of having that one person in your life who is completely, dependably, happily in your corner rooting for you can not be underestimated. I hope you have such a person in your life too.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Mirror, mirror on the wall...
Aging sucks. Not the part where I get progressively comfortable with who I really am and stop caring about those who don't like it. That part is fantastic. It's the looking in the mirror part of aging that I don't love so much. I'm 41, and let me just say that I totally appreciate how my sweet husband tells me on a regular basis that I am beautiful, especially, he notes, when compared to the average lady in my peer group. Or the time a friend of mine told me that I look fabulous and am in great shape, and that anyone who saw me from behind would think I was in my twenties. Um, thanks? I couldn't get over feeling like I'd just been told that I was a tall midget.
I came across this website yesterday called formerlyhot.com, and I had to laugh. (Mind you, I was never "hot", but I had my fair share of attention in my younger days.) Clearly, I'm not the only one struggling with the fading flower that was my youth. A lot of women like me have reached this place referred to by Formerly Hot's blogger, Stephanie Dolgoff, as the "adult tween years" - that time when you are within shouting distance of your best physical years, though there's no fooling yourself that you're still in them, but you haven't yet reached old age. Now that I have come to terms with the fact that I fall squarely into this category, clothes shopping has become an annoying foray into a fashion no man's land. I end up walking the razor-thin line between buying stuff that is age appropriate and cute but not matronly, versus succumbing to the siren's song of some (usually young, hot) salesperson in one of the fun stores convincing me that I look great in styles geared toward enhanced, super-skinny young ladies. Few things are as painful as seeing an "adult tween" woman prancing around in an outfit that would be appropriate for her if she were 10 years younger.
It's not that I'm uptight, it's just that I've decided to shoot for aging gracefully. Aside from not buying age-inappropriate clothing, this includes resisting surgical interventions. Plastic surgery is a foot jammed in the doorway of youth, and on the other side of the door is something BIG and determined to close it. Even with the best work, no one is fooled, and unfortunately, the best work seems to be the exception rather than the rule. What I hate most about the proliferation of all this plastic surgery is the implicit message that women aren't allowed to age, or our value diminishes when we do. So, yeah, I'm trying to get used to my crow's feet (I prefer to call them laugh lines), my small, somewhat-saggy breasts (common to women who've birthed children), and my fairly fit body, which could always be better but is a decent representation of a 40-something who works out regularly. Some days I feel pretty Zen about aging, and some days it's more like a slog up a 15% incline in the freezing rain with only the promise of a thin blanket to warm me when I reach the top.
As my favorite podcast host, Dan Savage of the Savage Lovecast, says (I'm paraphrasing here), "enjoy being objectified while you can because there will come a day when you no longer will be, and you'll miss it." I'm not going to lie, I miss it.
I came across this website yesterday called formerlyhot.com, and I had to laugh. (Mind you, I was never "hot", but I had my fair share of attention in my younger days.) Clearly, I'm not the only one struggling with the fading flower that was my youth. A lot of women like me have reached this place referred to by Formerly Hot's blogger, Stephanie Dolgoff, as the "adult tween years" - that time when you are within shouting distance of your best physical years, though there's no fooling yourself that you're still in them, but you haven't yet reached old age. Now that I have come to terms with the fact that I fall squarely into this category, clothes shopping has become an annoying foray into a fashion no man's land. I end up walking the razor-thin line between buying stuff that is age appropriate and cute but not matronly, versus succumbing to the siren's song of some (usually young, hot) salesperson in one of the fun stores convincing me that I look great in styles geared toward enhanced, super-skinny young ladies. Few things are as painful as seeing an "adult tween" woman prancing around in an outfit that would be appropriate for her if she were 10 years younger.
It's not that I'm uptight, it's just that I've decided to shoot for aging gracefully. Aside from not buying age-inappropriate clothing, this includes resisting surgical interventions. Plastic surgery is a foot jammed in the doorway of youth, and on the other side of the door is something BIG and determined to close it. Even with the best work, no one is fooled, and unfortunately, the best work seems to be the exception rather than the rule. What I hate most about the proliferation of all this plastic surgery is the implicit message that women aren't allowed to age, or our value diminishes when we do. So, yeah, I'm trying to get used to my crow's feet (I prefer to call them laugh lines), my small, somewhat-saggy breasts (common to women who've birthed children), and my fairly fit body, which could always be better but is a decent representation of a 40-something who works out regularly. Some days I feel pretty Zen about aging, and some days it's more like a slog up a 15% incline in the freezing rain with only the promise of a thin blanket to warm me when I reach the top.
As my favorite podcast host, Dan Savage of the Savage Lovecast, says (I'm paraphrasing here), "enjoy being objectified while you can because there will come a day when you no longer will be, and you'll miss it." I'm not going to lie, I miss it.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Friends - I Sure Know How to Pick 'Em
I don't have a lot of friends - acquaintances, yes, friends, no. Oh, I can put on my game face, make small talk and navigate a party when necessary, but I much prefer quiet solitude to forcing chatter with an obvious round hole to my square peg. I can count my close friends on two hands, just barely. To my friends reading this, you are of course in that count.
The first blush of a friendship is a little like falling in love for me. There's an undeniable, immediate attraction. We click. I'm fascinated and want to know more. I invest, but make sure to stay this side of "overly eager". I pay special attention. I miss them in between visits. Secretly, I hope that they feel the same way about me.
My closest friends, most of whom could populate the human version of the Island of Misfit Toys (yeah, yeah, I'd be there too), are generally an appealing combination of somewhat damaged, vulnerable and open as a result, scrappy and intuitive, and genuinely trying to make the world and themselves better. They are nice people with an edge. Unflinching honesty delivered with a velvet glove, plus the ability to discern when that's necessary (a skill typically honed by having swallowed wounds and slights, but not the accompanying bitterness) goes a long way with me.
Were they clothes, they would be like the Mad Hatter's ensemble in Tim Burton's version of Alice in Wonderland - comfortable with a cozy fit, well-constructed and tough, slightly frayed around the edges because of wear but holding up well otherwise, and always containing some slightly kooky, delightful flair. Few things thrill me like discovering that some sweetly-exteriored person has a bite to her inner self. Unwrapping a beautiful package and discovering grit and dirt inside only makes me want to know the back story that much more, and those unanticipated revelations keep me wondering what else this person is going to show me. I love a friend who will go to the raw places with me, but who also has figured out how to filter her crude internal self just enough to function in polite society.
I would like to think that, as a friend myself, I am a satisfying combination of "what you see is what you get" and "what you get is doled out in a slightly surprising way", because while my brain knows that I fit more neatly into a demographic than I wish I did (as evidenced by the number of times iTunes' Genius nails my song recommendations), the "you're the only snowflake like you in the whole wide world" part of me hopes I'm not completely predictable.
I'm low profile and laid back, and I appreciate the same in others. A few of my friendships died premature deaths when I just couldn't take anymore of the unceasing "Me" show. Turns out that the "Look at me. No, really, look at me" personality is only interesting for about the ten minutes it takes to realize that's all there ever will be there. The older I get, the less willing I am to waste time with the energy vampires. I've taken a lot of steps to live consciously and to let people see me as I really am, and I'm glad I've made the effort to purge relationships from my life that don't work for me. At the same time, I've managed to hold onto people who on the surface may appear ordinary, but contain within them incredibly beautiful and valuable qualities. Sometimes I can scarcely believe I had the good fortune to stumble upon them at all, and even more so that they've allowed me to stake a claim in them.
I have this one friend, for example, who is seriously one of my favorite people in the whole world. Aside from being quirky, funny, and very clever, he has this oh-so-refreshing habit of always telling the truth, to everyone. He's just so utterly charming while doing it that it's easy to swallow even the bitterest pill when it comes from him. Maybe it's because he doesn't feel the need to bludgeon with the truth. Even so, not everyone is interested in being friends with someone who is globally honest. It definitely takes some getting used to, but once you do it's liberating. It works for me because I have discovered that I have no patience for trying to interpret a message, and really, I'm just not very good at it. Whether I like what he's saying to me or not, at least I always know where I stand with him.
The common theme here is that every single one of my close friends brings something to the table that I admire and want to emulate - unwavering honesty, incredible courage and a willingness to walk right up to and confront very uncomfortable situations, wide open minds, the deepest wells of integrity and goodness so pure they couldn't be faked by even the best actor, a hardcore sense of adventure and desire to soak up everything life has to offer. The people dearest to me make me want to dig deep and find the best version of myself, pull it out, breathe life into it, and head off down the path with them to see what lies around the next bend.
The first blush of a friendship is a little like falling in love for me. There's an undeniable, immediate attraction. We click. I'm fascinated and want to know more. I invest, but make sure to stay this side of "overly eager". I pay special attention. I miss them in between visits. Secretly, I hope that they feel the same way about me.
My closest friends, most of whom could populate the human version of the Island of Misfit Toys (yeah, yeah, I'd be there too), are generally an appealing combination of somewhat damaged, vulnerable and open as a result, scrappy and intuitive, and genuinely trying to make the world and themselves better. They are nice people with an edge. Unflinching honesty delivered with a velvet glove, plus the ability to discern when that's necessary (a skill typically honed by having swallowed wounds and slights, but not the accompanying bitterness) goes a long way with me.
Were they clothes, they would be like the Mad Hatter's ensemble in Tim Burton's version of Alice in Wonderland - comfortable with a cozy fit, well-constructed and tough, slightly frayed around the edges because of wear but holding up well otherwise, and always containing some slightly kooky, delightful flair. Few things thrill me like discovering that some sweetly-exteriored person has a bite to her inner self. Unwrapping a beautiful package and discovering grit and dirt inside only makes me want to know the back story that much more, and those unanticipated revelations keep me wondering what else this person is going to show me. I love a friend who will go to the raw places with me, but who also has figured out how to filter her crude internal self just enough to function in polite society.
I would like to think that, as a friend myself, I am a satisfying combination of "what you see is what you get" and "what you get is doled out in a slightly surprising way", because while my brain knows that I fit more neatly into a demographic than I wish I did (as evidenced by the number of times iTunes' Genius nails my song recommendations), the "you're the only snowflake like you in the whole wide world" part of me hopes I'm not completely predictable.
I'm low profile and laid back, and I appreciate the same in others. A few of my friendships died premature deaths when I just couldn't take anymore of the unceasing "Me" show. Turns out that the "Look at me. No, really, look at me" personality is only interesting for about the ten minutes it takes to realize that's all there ever will be there. The older I get, the less willing I am to waste time with the energy vampires. I've taken a lot of steps to live consciously and to let people see me as I really am, and I'm glad I've made the effort to purge relationships from my life that don't work for me. At the same time, I've managed to hold onto people who on the surface may appear ordinary, but contain within them incredibly beautiful and valuable qualities. Sometimes I can scarcely believe I had the good fortune to stumble upon them at all, and even more so that they've allowed me to stake a claim in them.
I have this one friend, for example, who is seriously one of my favorite people in the whole world. Aside from being quirky, funny, and very clever, he has this oh-so-refreshing habit of always telling the truth, to everyone. He's just so utterly charming while doing it that it's easy to swallow even the bitterest pill when it comes from him. Maybe it's because he doesn't feel the need to bludgeon with the truth. Even so, not everyone is interested in being friends with someone who is globally honest. It definitely takes some getting used to, but once you do it's liberating. It works for me because I have discovered that I have no patience for trying to interpret a message, and really, I'm just not very good at it. Whether I like what he's saying to me or not, at least I always know where I stand with him.
The common theme here is that every single one of my close friends brings something to the table that I admire and want to emulate - unwavering honesty, incredible courage and a willingness to walk right up to and confront very uncomfortable situations, wide open minds, the deepest wells of integrity and goodness so pure they couldn't be faked by even the best actor, a hardcore sense of adventure and desire to soak up everything life has to offer. The people dearest to me make me want to dig deep and find the best version of myself, pull it out, breathe life into it, and head off down the path with them to see what lies around the next bend.
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