Romancing my Social Issues

I'm a bad friend. I'm pretty sure I am. This is why- no close lady friends.

Isn't that the logical conclusion? I've decided so. It's either because I'm a bad friend, or because I'm chubby, or because I drink too much at dinner parties. Okay, now I'm not sure what the problem is anymore.

But seriously, I think I'm doing something wrong. I have this problem that I have decided to call "social retardation." It happens when I think I'm friends with someone and, in the worst instances, sometimes I think we are best friends. Only later I discover that we're not really very good friends. But it doesn't involve any dramatic fights or angry exchanges. It's just a quiet realization that I stumble upon. Like, oh maybe we're not best friends since I didn't get invited to your wedding when all of our other mutual friends did, even the dumb ones. And, I just socially and psychologically stumble away, horrified and embarrassed. I avoid the other person forever, but not because I'm angry. I'm secretly humiliated.

Once when my husband tried to give me a one-on-one intervention on my social retardation issue, he asked me "Who are your friends that you can call on the phone when you have problems?" And when I started down the list, he interrupted me to say, "No. Your family members who live in a different state don't count."  What the crap? What about bitching to co-workers about a puking kid last night or whatever? Holy smokes, I'm not completely reclusive and alone. I'm married, damn it.

But this is the point, I am a social romantic and I am not a self-pitying gal. It is better to love and not be invited to the wedding, than to never love at all. This is not a "poor me" blog. This is a manifesto. And I declare- I will find you lady friend and I will never be the only lady drinking too much at the dinner party again. Uh, or something.

Falling down for a win

Tonight, I stepped on "The Places You'll Go" and I went somewhere.

I slipped, feet over head. I saw potential broken ankles and wrist bones flashing past my eyes. So, midair and split-second, I twisted like a cat -well, like a chubby cat in her mid-thirties (in cat years) with a sharp wit and winning personality. But, I fell hard, mostly on my hip, one of my biggest, strongest body parts, which is lucky for me in this instance only.

Cohen was terrified. He asked very dramatically "what happened?" And I gasped, swallowing back tears that came automatically from the unexpected adrenaline rush, "I slipped." Then he said, "You flipped! Hooray!" And he clapped. So, I very slowly crawled to my feet and I bowed.

I'll take a victory anytime I can get it.