Sunday, July 7, 2013


I care about people. But most of the time I wish I didn't. At least not so much.

M— has this fab idea to build a cabin in the backwoods. We would, of course, move in—permanently.

But even B— last week wised up a lot faster than I'd anticipated.

"Mom," he said. "You know how I had that idea that we could live in a motorhome together when I grow up? Don't feel bad; I still love you. But I want to live in it by myself."

I have this cautious acquaintance. Alright, I adore him. But it's a careful adoration, because he is the iconic misanthrope, and while I like him I'm fully aware that he mistrusts and disdains almost everyone and everything. What the devil is wrong with me? While most of his friends just shake their heads, I care about this human. I don't want to save or fix him, but the dial on the care volume is busted. I have no control over my emotional investment.

I've another friend, one I've known for well over twenty years. He is a militant atheist, and even though he does his best to whittle away at my faith at every given opportunity, I adore him.

Then there's this darling friend who is far away, who I miss having lunch with, who I miss talking to for hours on end, who I couldn't pay to move back to Happy Towne because she's going to do her grad work at Hofstra and well, duh. But I miss her because I adore her.

And then there's this other friend. And another. And another. And another. And none of them fit a mold. None of them make any logical day-to-day contribution to my existence, but dammit if I don't care for them.

I text people. I write people. I visit people.

I love these persons, but I'm not sure it matters because I am still I so damned lonely.

What is wrong with me?

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