Middle Aged Plague

Joseph Canyon, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I really do need to learn to manage my mouth one of these days.

Actually, since my social faux pas was on an e-mail, I suppose it’s my fingers that need the blocking, but truth be told, I don’t feel particularly bad about speaking my little mind.

It all started with an invitation to a virtual female bonding event featuring my least favorite Perky Blonde, 11 DVD-fests in all and only $15 for Blondie’s retirement account, er, book.

For some reason, I lack the genetic DNA to sit in a circle and listen to one or two members of a group drone on and on about how they feel about what we have all just endured. It’s bad enough languishing through 90-minutes of gently breathed platitudes on my attitude of gratitude, and I figure that, if I’m decent enough to not let the others in the circle in on my thoughts about our recent ordeal, then maybe they could do the same for me.

This goes a long way toward explaining why I do not participate in these group activities.

It does not, however, explain why I keep getting invited to them.

“Are you venting?” the Norwegian Artist asked when I reads aloud the initial few paragraphs of this piece.

“Not at all.”

Actually, I already vented, shooting off my digital mouth to the person who sent me — and 232 others, according to the recipient line (I couldn’t even find myself) — the invitation to, on a weekly basis, sit in a carpeted chair in front of a flat screen TV and listen to Ms. Sparkle twitter and twinkle about my life, and her life, and how the things she has to say will make my life look more like hers, with the exception of the royalty payments.

Bainbridge Island Sail-by, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Most of the time I am reasonably circumspect with these requests, hitting the delete button or at most replying “No thank you,” but this time I felt compelled to elucidate.

“I can’t stand this woman,” I wrote, plus a bit more. “I’m not sure how you found me, but please take me off your list.”

This, my hostess did, explaining who she was (Oh, God — we know one another) and why I was on the list (in a moment of insanity I told her she could put me there; maybe I should work on my listening skills as well) and that she didn’t mean to offend me (I feel like dirt), and that our kids know one another (what do I  say the next time we meet?).

It reminded me of the family story when an anonymous female relative was attending some posh canape and shrimp salad event and snatched at some unattached elegantly coiffed society grande dame to chit chat with.

“Look at that young man’s hair!” Anonymous Relative exclaimed. “It’s long and greasy and dirty and matted. What kind of parents raised a child like that?”

“I did,” Society Dame replied.

Well how do you follow up on a comment like that?

“Like”?

You know, if people would have the courtesy to identify themselves clearly in their e-mail addresses in the first place, then issues like this wouldn’t develop into volumes of trouble. My e-mail correspondent  identified herself as GwendolynAlistair@yahoo.com, and since I don’t know any Gwendolyns or Alistairs, I was secure in bleating out my opinion to a total stranger.

Except that she was not a total stranger. She is also not named Gwendolyn and she is not married to Alistair.

How uncompromisingly rude.

If people would simply think about these things in the first place, then people like me would not have to think at all.

Really, my little world is so simple, even someone like me can understand it.

Wading, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson