Happy Birthday To Me. Yep, I let a select few of you down yet again.
Yes, compared to the alternative aging another year is more than favorable. But that doesn’t mean it’s a joyride, either.
I’m now inexorably in a demographic category that advertisers largely consider irrelevant. Even in the more generous surveys where ten-year age options attempt to classify those of us who are arguably still ambulatory, if I choose to answer honestly I’m aware enough to know that my responses will likely trigger more sponsored posts for 28-day body shaping regimens specifically tailored to my “needs” and a host of suggestions to join nostalgia groups. I’ve actually taken the bait on a few of those more sleepless nights and opted it to them–some have group chats that send you a warm welcome and a lengthy list of dos and don’ts for that particular group’s etiquette. Not that they’ve been necessary in a disturbingly large proportion of them.
It seems that virtually every member feels an obilgation to “check in” with the group with a waving hand e-moji. Each one triggers a messenger alert that when I eventually see the big red number gives me a dopamine rush that someone I actually know might actually be responding to my outreaches. I’m not shy about asking people to connect in person and, frankly, given the unique events of the past five and one-half years that personal contact is far more meaningful and indeed necessary for me than any social media contact can provide.
And that’s gotten particularly true as AI chatbots have become more sophisticated and invasive. At least three times a day I seem to get text messages from some seemingly familiar area code that cheerily asks “Are you ready for the party tonight?” or “Have any plans for the weekend?”. At first I went down those rabbit holes out of both desparation and ignorance since inevitably I didn’t have any actual plans. When the response came back with something to the effect of “Didn’t you save my number, Daisy?” I came to realize these are nothing more than scams, sometimes even infiltrated by bots. I’ve come to that conclusion based upon the slew of insults that I’d spew in frustration that the entity on the other end confused me with “Daisy” that would only occasionally trigger a “f–k you” response.
I’m sure this has happened to you–maybe more often than it happens to me. But it probably rolls off your back like water does on a duck’s if you are among those that actually have some sort of living companionship to avail yourself of that isn’t purely transactional. A spouse, a family member, a pet, even a plant. None of those are options I have at the moment. Or, for that matter, for a lot of moments since my monumentally transformational year of 2020 where just about every personal connection I had evaporated. Sure, COVID was a culprit, but the end to both one’s marriage and executive job and a couple of surgeries that followed a near-death experience mere days before the new decade began created an even more disruptive set of circumstances in my life.
I’ve mused about this before as many of you might be aware. Three years ago I was especially bitter about someone who was of the few bright spots of that god-awful 2020 that has completely ghosted me out of their life. Two years ago I aberrated with a promise to begin a series of more personal stories on a separate website. I take ownership of losing interest in that rather quickly; feel free to visit what is essentially a zombie site if you choose. Last year I was more broken up about the death of a radio station than I was about the fact that these days audio entertainment is about the only thing I share my bed with.
Yes, I do have my health for all intents and purposes, and at this point that’s hardly guaranteed. Yes, I do have a couple of people in my life that actually have made time for me recently–it’s the companionship I value far more than the free meal. Yes, I still hear almost daily from the FBP that I mentioned in that now three-year-old bitchpost. But I also haven’t seen that person face-to-face since that was written.
And yes, I am fortunate that at least I have some sort of a job that ironically forces me to interact with dozens of people a day. But, again, these are transactional interactions. I follow people around a store in the hope of getting them to agree to be pitched an upgrade to their heating and cooling or plumbing services or search for the diamonds in the rough that actually need service and don’t happen to have a relative, neighbor or “a guy” that they simply would never consider replacing. On a good day, less than five percent of those “conversations” turn into something positive. And exactly one that promised “I’ll think about and get back to you” actually did. They don’t exactly offset the “Heismans” of physical dismissal or the threats to have me fired for daring to even speak to them. The fact that it mirrors my non-work life is what exacerbates my depression and exhaustion to the point where lately there isn’t a day that I don’t collapse in tears with only sleep as my eventual savior.
The fact is I’m in a Sisyphusian rut of loneliness that I never thought would last this long or this severly. I keep telling myself I’m one project or one sale away from at least having enough money to actually be able to afford to actually see my bestie or afford to actually have something resembling a social life. Or one interview away from resurrecting my career to assure that would be the case. But as the years mount and the calendar turns yet another page away from what I once called my life we both know the chances for any of that to actually happen are increasingly minute.
Go ahead and call me selfish, unrealistic and bitter if you must. I don’t think wanting some sort of work/life balance qualifies as such. If you’ve got it what makes me so unique and undeserving of same? And I can’t help but continue to wonder if that reality is what keeps an awful lot of you at a distance no matter how much I try and convey to you how and why my need for human interaction is so profound.
A walk in the park–not when I’ve just completed a frustrating seven-hour day–would be fine. A phone call would be a start. Even a human voice is better than a freaking e-moji or text.
Again, for those of you that fall into the category of those that actually have shown some sort of kindness and given me the opportunity to reciprocate in the past year, none of this applies to you. You have my gratitude and respect and my vow that if/when I’m a position to do I’ll return whatever largesse you’ve imparted and then some.
But for the vast majority that somehow can’t find even a few minutes a month for some sort of human connection–what will it take to actually get something more than a thumbs up or a waving hand e-moji out of you?
You tell me. I’ve got way too much time on MY hands.
Until next time…