“She looks at me, and we both laugh, and in the instant we are merely two women, standing over a lasagna, telling the truth.” –Jodi Picoult, Small Great Things
~ I’m the kind of person who is interested.
I want to know who you are, what you want from life, your passions, your failures, and if worship Jesus, Buddha, or Tom Cruise.
What kind of books do you read? Have you read Wild yet, Eat Pray Love, or To Kill a Mockingbird? Lolita? Do you sympathize with Madam Bovary as I do? Seriously, why wouldn’t you want her to live an authentic life? Tell me.
I want to know how many kids you have, your partner’s name, what kind of sugar cookies you bake for Christmas. Do you sprinkle the dough with those cute, little gold and silver balls?
It’s just my thing.
I’m the kind of person who will identify with you if you mention your flaws, weaknesses, your parenting regrets. For example, if you say, “My kid doesn’t give a rat’s ass about school, he’s definitely not on the Dean’s list, but he’s kind and compassionate,” I’ll probably get you.
I recall talking to a soccer mom once who said, “Oh, no, I don’t go to any of my son’s conferences any longer. I find it exhausting when the teachers’ keep telling me how brilliant he is.”
She and I shall NEVER go out for wine, shall never meet for deep conversation, shall never be allies.
I have this gage I go by, these sort of imaginary standards I list inside my head. When I encounter somebody new, I typically know within thirty minutes if we could have a glass of wine together. My close friends who know about this gage will ask, “Weeeeeell, would you go for wine with her?”
And it’s either a nope, aaaaabsolutely not, noooo way, Or OMMMMGGGG, I love, love, love her.
If you pull me to the side at work after a horrendous day dealing with unruly, unmanageable children and whisper in my ear, “F******CK,” I will immediately understand you, want to hug you, want to have a conversation about what spurs you forward.
If you confess you may be going madly insane after the death of your mother, father, child, or sister, that part of your soul is gone forever. I’ll probably take you by the hand, kiss you on the cheek, and tenderly say, “Me, too.”
Connection is beautiful.
It’s like an energy flowing from one heart to another. It’s like unfinished words colliding in midair.
It’s rare, this connection, this magnetic force, but when it happens, we bloom into more than who we were before. We grow fresh, colorful petals.
And we know we’re not alone in this colossal, crazy universe.
—–This blog was inspired by a woman I’ve talked to all year, who has NOT ONCE asked me about myself or my family. Thank you for being my special muse for this post. btw… we shall not be having wine together.
—What about you? Are you interested in other people’s lives?