There was a big long post from yesterday that I decided to make private, but in a nutshell:
It was suggested that I am brave for admitting to being lonely. In a culture that provides almost constant access to bits and pieces of other people’s lives -their milestones, daily aggravations, and even journals- and offers others the same of me, it is either brave or crazy to be lonely. But, I want more out of my friendships and I know I am not the only one. It seems like most people pull in the welcome mat when they hit their thirties and forties regardless of whether they have kids, and that is just sad.
Speaking of kids, two summers ago, people in a house a block away put a big, loud captain’s bell on their kids’ jungle gym. When the kids ring the bell, it sounds like they are ringing it in my living room. Of course, the kids became obsessed with the bell. I was hoping they would outgrow it, but we are halfway through summer number three, and as I write this, there are still dingdongs aplenty.
Anyway, I miss the intensity of sitting up late at night drinking beer/wine/coffee/whatever, talking about life and making shit up. I’m not complaining. In fact, telling the internet about this actually makes me feel a lot better and/or stupider, in a good way, because I realize that a) history abounds with people who maintained prolific, creative relationships all through adulthood, b) I am ridiculously introverted and I created this sorry state of affairs, which means that I can fix it, and c) really, I know I am not alone in this. I haven’t a clue how to find the rest of you, though.
