no illusions

Y'know, I know I'm not cool. I'm aware of the fact that I own three cats, don't know the name of any current bands, would rather spend the evening hanging out with a book and some cheese than go out to a hip club, wear entirely too much thrift store black, don't do anything interesting with my hair and go without makeup too often. I know that I don't pay enough attention to current events and that things take too long to percolate in my brain for me to be truly witty and interesting in conversation. I make obscure jokes and have a rather odd sense of humor. I curse too much, I have no problems eating exactly what I want, I give strangers my opinion, I think women who wince at the word "cunt" are ridiculous, I brag about my daughter and my boyfriend, and I don't have a problem calling myself a feminist.

When the rare guy hits on me, I think he's actually asking me for the time or directions or if I really do come to that bar often and I give a guileless, honest answer and move on.

I always thought that one day I'd reach a spot where I was happy with myself and the random criticism and rejection of strangers wouldn't hurt, wouldn't matter. Somehow I thought one day I'd get to some magical zen-like state where I'd feel bullet-proof. Your thoughts do not sting me, mere mortal. I laugh in the face of your disapproval.

Better yet, I don't even see your disapproval, you don't exist.

But the fact is, I do see it, and it does hurt. It hurts because I don't understand it. Like I said, I hold no illusions about my coolness, but I also hold no illusions about how nice I am. I can be a crotchety pain in the ass at times, but if we were trapped in an eleveator or a crowded bar table, hell even a long line, I'd compliment your hair/skirt/glasses/watch and be nice to you and try to find something to talk about. I'd try to pass the time pleasantly.

I'm a little tired of being nice to people and being brushed off and rejected. I'm not out in bars cruising for love here, folks. I've found love - I'm just waiting for it to find a job in Austin. I have one favorite place that I go to every now and then to have a couple of pints and read my book or write in my journal. I'd just like to hold a conversation with someone other than my daughter or my mom or people in the computer.

Apparently I'm just not cool enough.

So fine. You wonder why I bring a book when I go out to have a beer? This is why. Because sometimes I want a pint of Guinness or a bowl of peanuts without any cat hair in it and without a pile of laundry staring at me and there are other people in those places. And my choices are to try to make conversation with those people, sit and stare at them or bring up the shield and read. It's safe behind the shield, the people back here don't look me up and down and judge me because I choose to wear Tevas or because I have the wrong color polish on my toenails or because I read Joseph Heller instead of the Wall Street Journal.

I have no illusions about myself. I just try to be a nice person and live my life. I wouldn't mind if I had a couple of people to talk to about it, but that doesn't seem to be working out very well.

So, y'know, fine. I've been told I'm brave for even going out by myself in the first place. I guess I got too brave by coming out from behind my book and trying to talk to people. I'll just go back behind the book where it's safe and wait for Jef, thank you.