I’ve never really worried about how my friends perceive me. I mean, of course I care as much as the next person what people think, but I always figure if we’re friends then they think I’m awesome, and vice versa.
Sometimes though you get a flash of how someone sees you and it isn’t always flattering. This is when I start to assess what I’m doing anywhere near people who think I’m boring. That’s how they make me feel, anyway.
But what is exciting? Is it someone who knows who they are, who can articulate and laugh at themselves, or is it someone who’s up all hours, shagging and dancing and flirting and shitting fucking rainbows? Isn’t there room for both, and everything in between?
It would be remiss of me to pretend I don’t sometimes feel old, that being married, though the greatest adventure I’ve ever had, means I’m not dancing on tables and swilling Tequila from hot men’s arm pit crevices anymore. But then I remember I was never really that person.
Maybe for a brief while, when all nighters and Speed were de rigour, then gay clubs and head injuries obtained from drag queen’s handbags. But I left it behind because in the end, I’ve done it. My quality time with friends is now a little quieter and a lot more enjoyable as far as I’m concerned. It rarely means padding home barefoot at 5 am, although it’s not completely outside the realm of possibility (hello work’s Christmas do).
But does that make me a boring shit?
I’m not a party girl. I like a nice meal and a good old catch up, I like talking and reading and films. I like to be able to hear what the other person is saying because I like to listen. It would never occur to me to bombard anyone with intricate tales of every little thing I’ve been doing.
Do they need to know that I love Netflix, am obsessed with walking through Brighton looking at graffiti; that when I have time off I just want to be left alone? That if I really like you I’ll be there, but I don’t play well in big groups, where I don’t know anybody. Should I apologise that I haven’t been to Croatia this year, or anywhere for a while, that I don’t eat at the right restaurants or drink the best gin?
I suppose this post is cryptic in some ways, that I should just have the balls to come out and confront. But I don’t want to, man. I’m cool with who I am, and the people who matter know who I am too. Maybe it’s friend trimming time, the season to take stock of what I’ve got and move on from the ones that don’t think I’m cool enough.
Anyway, here’s to my boring life, the one I choose and the one I love. Here’s to the people who understand me and share it with me. Here’s to the ones who think I’m fascinating and fun, no matter what.