I have inadvertantly become a hermit.
Anyone that knows me will tell you I am a very outgoing sociable person. I am loud, boisterous and fun loving. Lately, however, when I attempt to make connections, I fall flat. I am finding it is very difficult to make friends at 42. Lacking in the commonality that I relied on in high school, I no longer belong to a particular social group. I am usually among the oldest of students at college. I no longer attend church and Phi Theta Kappa was boring to me.
I do not suffer fools and my standards are high. I have a wicked sense of humor, I read, I make conversation, but most of my human contact consists of people I help in my store at the mall. Simply by virtue of their "consumerism", I tend to find little in common.
My greatest friends lately have been books, especially in the form of biographies.
My companions in the last couple of weeks have been Lord Curzon and his daughters, Alva and Consuelo Vanderbilt, Janice Joplin, W.C. Fields, and Augusten Burroughs.
For sheer obnoxiousness, I would relish a friendship with Burroughs or Fields.
All of these folks are flawed, yet so compelling. I like taking time to look beyond imperfection to find the nugget of sublime bliss. I don't find others around me inclined to the same.
Often I'm sad about my self-imposed exile, but an evening of W.C. Fields is my idea of fun! So, off to Amazon I go to seek him out on DVD.
