I posted this as a status to the Facebook the other day. I meant it, but not in the way you might expect.
It’s about my journey of self-discovery.
Sometimes, when I go out and socialize with friends, there are too many awkward silences. Yet, with the right people, some friends open up. For instance, I have an extroverted friend who loves his whiskey, and he’ll talk to anyone—in fact, that’s how I got to know him.
One night, I was out with a couple of friends from work and we met up with him at a local bar. What conversation! My co-workers are interesting, with real life stories! Who knew? We must have talked and talked and talked for hours. About everything.
Same friend from work, I take him out with some other “social” friends of mine. Nothing to say. In fact, he seems downright bored from the conversation. I feel bad. Maybe I shouldn’t?
Another friend, this one from college. We show up at a pool party with another “social” friend of mine. Hostess greets us, then does her thing. Does nothing to work the groups together. Does nothing to ease the friend making process that I’ve read happens at social events. We get bored and leave.
Same friend, he’s actually quite extroverted and socially savvy, joins me for dinner with a couple of my lady friends. There’s a lot of lively conversation, but as he points out—it’s all about food, travel and gossip. Very shallow, or to his word: vacuous.
Since that evening, I’ve been observing just how vacuous my friends are. But are they?
Once in a while, someone fascinates me with a terrific story. OMG! You’re interesting! I love it!
Then reality sets in. I’m not interesting.
So, that’s where I was going. All this time, I thought people in my life aren’t interesting. Turns out, I’m not interesting.
Oh, I have some terrific stories—yet they’re all events that have happened to other people. Yes, there are a few interesting things I’ve experienced, but I feel like there should be so much more.
Like perhaps I should be less “vacuous.”
Then, today I stumble upon a snap-rant that asks me to consider my biography. Were I to commission a biography, or write an autobiography, would anyone read it?
Currently? I doubt it. Sure, I’ve had a couple of adventures to Greece, but mostly played it safe on these trips. Same with my excursion to Montreal. I have a terrible story about drinking too much vodka that’s not worth retelling. Another about why you shouldn’t drive your girlfriend’s car to a party.
Mostly though, I watched television. I know nearly every episode of Moonlighting, Taxi and WKRP in Cincinnati by heart. Not something I’m proud of, nor would want in my eulogy.
I can tell you within seconds who sings a particular song. Often even if I’ve never heard the song (as long as I’ve heard the artist, obviously). Fun at parties, but no practical application here.
I have figured out a little about happiness, perception, and making a young lady smile. I may even know enough to get her into bed with five little words. Honestly, this is a step in the right direction.
Yet, I’m still striving to be more interesting. There’s that word again. More. Gene Simmons said it was the most important word in our vocabulary. What would Gene Simmons do?
I’m moving in the right direction. I’m becoming more social. I’m transitioning to a more social career. I’m going out with friends more. I’m meeting more women. I’m screwing up less.
I am making life more interesting. This is getting handled.
Yet, for now, it’s not you. It’s me.
What i'm listening to:
Boys Night Out
Timothy B. Schmit