Thursday, October 8, 2009

Should you ever find yourself needing dirt, well, I know a guy. Saw a curious sign flanked by trees, as I drove back home yesterday, with “DIRT AVAILABLE” seared across its face, done real professional-like in bold font, with an actual phone number under the product offering. I’ve yet to call, but I imagine they take check, credit card, and possibly pine cone as well. I don’t know! I don’t know how the pine cone market has fared in this wretched economy.

But we’re here tonight to discuss an entirely different market, and before we parted ways we spoke about fitness. I should clarify I’m going nowhere near weights. There simply isn’t a reality in which I’d willingly choose to lift and drop heavy pieces of metal repeatedly. I’m not looking to get ripped. Fit is fine, and this same train of thought extends to what appeals to me. I’m not looking for smokin’. I mean, certainly there’s a minimum threshold of attractiveness–she’s got to have a full set of teeth, for instance–but extroverted and smart are the two things I absolutely need.

There’s something else that’s equally important as getting back into shape, I mentioned on Tuesday, and it’s far less tangible. In the past few months, I’ve plugged into the alumni association, church, and a marketing association with varying degrees of disappointment, all in service of a single question: “Which group is right for me?” It may be a valid inquiry, but what I really should be asking is this: “Why is it so difficult to connect?” I’m no longer sussing out the right community for me. There could be a local club of bloggers who maintain sites that are never to be mentioned in public, and I’d quit in two weeks flat. No, I’m trying to figure out why I’m communing. For me, there’s this sense of relief whenever a tie is severed. And yet, everywhere I look, there seems to be this fundamental need to connect.

You see it in bars, at church, during a marketing association meeting, online, even when paying for your stuff at a Target. I’m sure you’ve experienced this, where the person behind you complains under her breath about how the line is too long, and it’s expected that you commiserate. Total strangers, empathizing about the trivial. A woman did exactly this in a checkout line last week, and at first I withheld attention, then relented when I wondered if she was simply having a bad day. But just as I was turning around, she slammed, like, a 100-pack of Summer’s Eve wipes onto the checkout belt in a huff, and this little social conundrum instantly solved itself. It wasn’t the purchase itself, mind you. Hey, we all have our things. It was how the purchase intersected with her foul temperament. Some Venn diagrams are meant to be avoided.

So, the question. Movement on this front, unfortunately, can’t be measured by a scale, so it’s going to be a work in progress. I will keep you appraised of any revelations. You may be assured of it. In the mean time, I’m focusing on good health. It’s the straight and narrow for me. I went to a business outing a few hours ago and ordered a salad for dinner–a salad!–and I feel like a goddamned saint right now.