After chatting with a friend I hadn’t heard from in a while, I came to the conclusion that good = boring. The conversation started with your usual mindless chitchat, cleaning products, fingernail clippers, Mexico’s independence and what not. And while I can talk for days on end about my need (yes, it’s a need) for Pine Sol to make an air freshener or the wonderful terrors that are my children, eventually I began to wonder how long we’d spar back and forth before getting to the juicy stuff that I’d been speculating on for almost a week. And then, just as I was about to throw the conversation into second, the question arose on the other end: So how the heck are you?
Hmm, how was I? I thought about it. Aside from being poorer than I’d like to be and in need of a serious hair cut, I was good. Juuuuussst goooooooood. Bleck. YAAAWWWNN! Boring!! Where is the conversation in that?? (Unless anyone knows of a cheap stylist in the NoHo area… Then I’m all ears.)
And since I was “just good”, my friend now also had to be “just good.” Apparently, there is some unspoken rule that you must be in the same emotional life state as the person you are talking with. If they are happy, you’re happy (even when you’re not) and if they are in the dumps, you are permitted to discuss the low points in your own life, usually under the pretense that you’re offering some kind of pick-me-up advice. I never follow this rule because 1) it’s retarded and 2) I will almost never skip an opportunity to talk about myself (don’t you know it!) Anyhow, then we had this super-phoney, slightly-awkward, non-toe-stepping banter while we each waited for the other to make some excuse to escape the wreckage of what could have been an awesomely (!) interesting conversation.
So how does “good” manage to ruin great conversations? This isn’t the only conversation I’ve had that’s been stalled by good. I’m noticing a trend. Maybe I should to stop talking about the only four things I do in life: babies, beach, biking, and um, Jessielah crap. The weather? Who cares! Poo-poo in the potty? Old news! I’m taking up lying, say that life is hard again, that I was attacked by a praying mantis who stole my keys… something. Because now I just have to make something interesting up.
Bottom Line: Good gets you endless speculation and a sore throat.
I pull up at El Cajon Blvd and Ohio Street and there is a serious line wrapped around the Roberto’s. It’s hands down the best mexican food in town. Beans are salty and delicious, there are vegetables in the rice…. nothing taste like bland lard. Yum. Plus you don’t have to go inside a hot and greasy hole-in-the-wall restaurant with some arcade machine in the corner and a quarter “guess your weight” reader. Drive Thru. AWESOME!
So while I’m hanging out on the side walk waiting, I start getting all melancholy. It doesn’t help that I’m listening to like Kill Me Now Owls or whatever. (Actually the band is Owl City and they are really peppy.) So maybe it’s just me. Basically, I’ve ruined my life. So maybe I wasn’t happy before and that is why all of this was allowed to happen, but I didn’t KNOW that I was unhappy. I actually thought I was LUCKY to be where I was: at home with my boys, spending every day outside in the sun on a swing with a laptop… Sigh. Maybe it’s because I had such a shitty previous 5 years that everything was better than being a down and out starving grad student. I don’t know. I’m like Cypher from the Matrix. Why didn’t I just take the blue pill? Now I’m stuck in the gloomy ass matrix eating slop-amino-soup but I don’t have a Trinity to like be my bad ass back-up lover in leather.
The line moves up an inch, but I’m not close enough to the screen to order. So I start thinking back on other times I have felt this way (like with John from the bank or with Chris G from times long long ago). Okay, it sucked. I wanted to die for a few days, but I sucked it up and got over it. And my life isn’t shit not having them in it. So cool. Right? Easy. Should be. But I have to get over someone who I know felt the same way I did – which is like… a whole new can of beans because the last two people who felt that way about me, one stayed with me for 5 years and the other one married me. So, okay. But let’s say that we get over it because I’m a super-Sara-bad ass. (I’m not, but lets pretend.) I stomp down all these feelings and (very real) thoughts deep down, like a trash compactor and then I am “healed.” But wait, there’s more!! Now I have to re fall in love. So I have to go back in the trash can like an old Chinese lady looking for cans, find the other love, wash it off, stain treat it and see if it’s wearable or if I just destroyed it forever. I guess it can be done. Doctors make money of getting it done, right?
Sigh. Yeah, I’ll take a quesadilla with rice and beans… um, and a can of Pepsi.