Most humans grow up cognizant of the fact that they need regular contact with other humans. Not this girl! I need my mom, of course, to love me and scratch my back and point out that most of my problems aren’t legitimately problems… like the emotionally reactive puppy that I am. I need to have friends and family and know that they’re peripherally out there in the world; occasionally considering whether or not I’m still alive and what I’m up to. I’m even described as a “people person.” I talk to strangers; I like crowds; I run into people I know everywhere because I know everyone, which seriously impedes my ability to wear my favorite outfit (velour leopard pajama bottoms + cats against cat calls t-shirt) outside of my apartment. And although people literally cramp my ramshackle style, I scored a 7 out of 65 on Buzzfeed’s How Much Do You Hate People? quiz, which means that I only 11% hate people; which means I 89% like people, so if I’m grading on a curve because, hello, the internet is to cynicism what my bloodstream is to caffeine and my fingers are so damn twitchy that I’m having trouble typing; I get an A in tolerating, nay – APPRECIATING – my fellow bipeds…
…from a distance.
The past few years have been about carving out creative space and learning how to say “thanks for the invite to your improv marathon or your friend’s parents’ lakehouse or your whiffleball league, but um…no,” without apologizing for my lack of interest. The should-be-obvious byproduct, however, of narrowing my field of distraction in the interest of finding myself is losing everybody else. Relationships take effort. This was a revelation to me, I sh*t you not. I was recently awoken in the night by a stampede of dreamy electric sparkle-horses of PURE ENLIGHTENMENT – which I don’t remember even a little bit, but I know it happened because I discovered this in my bedside notebook the next day:
It probably means that I should stop eating bananas before bedtime, but I’m going to interpret it like this: being a “people person” is not an accomplishment in and of itself. The real work is in building and maintaining relationships. So now that I know how to take care of myself — through making and writing and running and eating plants — I can get back to the business of taking care of other people. I can do a better job at letting my friends know that I love them. I can take advantage of family time more often — maybe I’ll use the commute to day dream! Maybe I’ll finish my book on a Metra to the suburbs! Because The Universe has given me this baller family, and this posse of boss-ass bitches, and while I do ask that the people in my life respect my need for space in which to overshare on the internet or glue rhinestones on things that don’t require rhinestones, I’d be nuts to let my bonds get busted just because I’m perpetually annoyed with myself for not completing all the projects, every project. My ambitions for a faux flower wall will wait for me — but maybe people won’t.