GENTLE READERS: I wrote this last night, but forgot to hit the “Publish” button before going to bed. I’ll do another post today (Friday), so the Chihuahuas won’t have to suffer the scourge of illiteracy…Blog-a-thon is still on, yo!
Today is Day One of ten in My Life as a Rock & Roll widow. You see, Paul’s band, Kids on Fire (the band name “Middle-Aged Software Developers,” I guess, was already taken…) is on their World Tour (as in, all the places on the tour are in the world).
Whenever Paul leaves on his World Tours and such, I realize that -- as much as I’m his Official Meal Coordinator™, he’s my Official Social Coordinator™. Unlike me, Paul is great about scheduling social activities. And he has excellent taste in friends, so it’s too easy not to just latch on.
|My strategy for making friends, only without the digesting-them part...|
I always think that, if I invite people to do something, I’ll make them uncomfortable, or feel obliged, or think I have some weird ulterior motive. Maybe they’ll worry that I’m going to ask them to buy and/or sell Amway products (is that still a thing?)? Or tell them about the joys of Scientology? Or propose a three-way with them and a mature billy goat?
|No mature billy goats were molested in the making of this anecdote.|
My social dysfunction is all the more strange given the fact that my jobs over the past 10 years have involved nothing but schmoozing and asking people to go out of their way to give their time, money, etc. to help with some sort of cause or project. Somehow, bothering people in the name of charity/work never phased me in the slightest, but asking people to, say, go grab a coffee or beer sometime, always seemed (and seems) downright terrifying.
Yes, I’d rather ask semi-strangers for $20,000 (for a cause) than invite a friend to dinner. Is that weird? I’m like the social version of a Venus flytrap. I just wait for opportunities/invitations to come to me.
Okay, this post is annoying. Like, really. It’s annoying to me, and I’m writing it. But, it’s the Blog-a-thon, and I don’t want to let the Chihuahuas down, so you’ll just have to suck it up, yo. Next post will be much less angst-y. Pinky-promise.