Ms Powell inspired me, as is her largely unwitting wont, during a brief conversation we had on Twitter yesterday to put to pen a couple threaded topics that have been on my mind.
I lend my hand every year to preparations for a Christmas Eve party. We pull out the stops and, for a crowd upwards of twenty adults (and attending cherubim) we pump out dish after dish after dish until people are begging us to stop; tearing up as they stuff more elegance into their gaping maws. Among the attendees for the last couple years is a romantic interest of an extended family member. He’s six foot one, thin (gaunt really), wears Elvis Costello glasses, pops his collar, and is completely translucent.
He may be the single dullest person I’ve ever been in a room with. But he may be the most interesting. Nobody knows. Nobody knows because despite the seriousness with which every one of the adult males in attendance has taken it upon themselves to try and engage this fellow in conversation, we have all failed utterly.
Nobody knows what he does for a living, what he’s interested in, what he listens to or reads, if he CAN read or where he lives. He evades polite conversation like a mime.
We started out being interested. Anyone who shows up is met with a roudy hurrah, a smile and a raised glass as they walk in the door. People contribute color by their presence, so more the merrier. But now I fear we’ve given up on this fellow. He spends hours keeping the children company, refusing all invitations to come sit with the guys for a cigar, scotch, egg nog, beer, ginger ale or fucking wine cooler. It is now obviously active disinterest.
I now regard this fellow with nearly open disdain.
I was in a conversation with one of my best friends. It was late in the evening, sitting on the porch with a fire going, deep in our cups.
We were talking about dating; more specifically about what Eddie Murphy refers to as “salad eating bitches.” You know them (even if you haven’t dated them.) People who are demure to a fault.
These are those people, like our buddy above, with whom you can have a conversation and learn nothing about them.
And I said “I don’t get it. You have to be excited about your life.” And I watched it hit him in the head like the proverbial diamond bullet, not doing more than giving voice to something that had been kicking around in his head, to be sure. But doing no less than that either.
Now, it’s one thing to be shy; to be pathologically terrified of what someone might think if you accidentally say the wrong thing. It’s sad to be shy and I spent years that way. I get it. But at some point even the shy become comfortable enough to talk. So it’s that point where all this comes in to play.
People. You have to be excited about your life. I, for one, have ZERO time in my life for people who aren’t taking a big bite out of this world and coming away with something they’re interested in. Before I get a lot of “well, not everybody is like you” (and I should bloody well hope not. This world would be in flames.) know that I don’t mean you have to be massively successful or great at what you or exceptionally worldly. But be who you are and embrace your identity.
The second internet date I ever went on was with this fabulous woman whose name I probably forgot 10 years ago. We only went out once, but I’ll never forget the evening as long as I live (the irony of “I’ll never forget whatsername” is not lost on me.) We met at Cowgirl’s, drank ourselves stupid and could. not. shut. up. We were wide-eyed and thrilled about everything that came up. We talked buddhism, astronomy, computers, all kinds of madness. It was a wonderful time.
I suppose some people are just dull. I also don’t mean “everybody’s a unique beautiful snowflake.” Well, I suppose it is true. But if you haven’t excavated that wonder within yourself then you’re just another ham sandwich with extra mayo and a lot of work to do in the mirror.
Ya know, you don’t have to be happy. But you have to take what is yours and embrace it. You’ve got to decide and discover who you are in this world, even if it’s only in your own head, and own it.
I fear people are being taught all too well, that they should be humiliated at their achievements rather than humble about their place in the world.
This brings us tangentally back to the twitter conversation.
She had just said she was a great photographer and baker, which I applauded and added:
We’ve all got plenty of stuff to be humble about. But we fucking rock where we fucking rock. False modesty is for cowards.
Never let it be said by someone that they “don’t remember much” about you.