September 22, 2011 § 39 Comments
A married friend has just called me and told me all about her glamorous and edgy life and then probed and probed me as to whether I had met Longer Shot yet (I haven’t), and I was irritated to fuck.
It’s funny, when some friends ask, you know they are doing so with generosity of spirit, but with others it sometimes feels as if it a subtle way of belittling you. So it was with this one this morning. I don’t care if it’s just my projection or perception or whatever the apposite word is, I felt this chemical reaction. The more she probed, the less I wanted to reveal and the more of a failure I felt. Her implication: her with her perfect husband; me not even able to MEET a man, let alone be with one. Squish. She is more attractive than me. Check. She is more successful than me. Check. She is leading a much more glamorous and edgy life than me. Check. She wants to hear all about my nothingness in order to score her morning hit of warm, fuzzy feeling. Meanwhile, I am feeling all sharply bitter and twisted and faintly fucking queasy.
Luckily, I had a long chat on the telephone last night to a beloved and very close member of my family. She has never had a shortage of men interested in her, they queue up in droves, it seems. She is very attractive not least because her ready laugh is completely irresistible, one of those laughs which makes you double up even if you didn’t hear the joke. I love that about somebody. She NEVER makes me feel that I am a paranoid queasy failure.
She has said to me she understands many of my grouses about being a plankton but the one she just can’t get is the public humiliation and sense of failure I feel at being one. She knows me so well and knows that I love life and am happy and she can’t understand, really, why I give a shit what others think, least of all about the fact that I am – “for the moment”; her words not mine – on my own.
I have been really trying to analyse it and have decided that what it boils down to is extraordinarily simple. I have said this before and will doubtless say it again: when you – OK, me, I am talking about me here because certain yous like my ball-breaking friend will protest and say they have chosen to be alone and oh, how they ADORE ADORE ADORE it and NEVER want to be with anyone ever again, men are a waste of space, it’s so much better and cooler and more FUN FUN FUN being alone, it’s the BEST – I am on my own, whatever anyone says, and there’s a lot of PC bullshit wrapped around this truth till it practically stifles it to death but the fact remains: BECAUSE NO ONE WANTS ME.
And it is that core of truth which is sometimes so very hard to brush away, and so very hard to take.
Even if the multi-millionaire did send me a text yesterday, saying how much he was looking forward to our date.