I don’t know if you know this about me, but I MAY be a curmudgeon. And yes, part of me just wanted to use that word. The other part of me is actually telling the truth.
How could a 20 something label herself as such a thing? Aren’t curmudgeons super old dudes that sit around and snarl at people for the heck of it? Aren’t they the kind of people that stare fun in the face and say, ‘boo hiss’? Aren’t they the people that puts baby in the corner (Dirty Dancing, you will always rock my world).
All of these things may be true, and no—I’m not really any of these things. I’ve only been called a party pooper/wet blanket a few times, and I would hardly say I’m elderly (regardless of my bad back and propensity for old man sweaters).
But when I say I’m a curmudgeon here is what I mean.
A lot of the time when people want to be social with my face—I have to actually convince myself that such a thing would be a good idea. Most of the time, I would much rather be alone, doing my own thing, getting my shit done.
Perhaps this isn’t me being a stick-in-the-mud, this is just me being a selfish bitch?
Regardless… I have a hard time convincing myself to be social, as I see better things to do with my time. NOW NOW NOW, don’t get me wrong—hanging out with my besties doesn’t count. Those people are like my oxygen supply, there is nothing forced about anything to do with them.
What I’m saying is… I will be alone forever.
Shit. I’m not making sense.
Here is what it is: I don’t have the energy or time to do the following: meet new people, date, try and make small talk, pretend to be interested in above things.
Sorry dudes. I would just rather be running, practicing yoga, hanging with my girls and my dog, or making food.
Perhaps this will result in me being the best old dog lady this world will ever see.
As far as I see it, my life is full.
So I shall leave you with a poem as I’m failing to really explain what I mean. Basically, this poem sums it up. I heart you Naomi Shiab Nye, you GET me.
When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
… before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
If they say we should get together
It’s not that you don’t love them any more.
You’re trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished.
When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven’t seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don’t start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.
Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.
Naomi Shihab Nye