When I picked up my friend J from the airport last night and tried to fill her in on my past week, I found myself beginning nearly every sentence with the phrase “I blogged about this, but…” Or, alternately, “I’m going to blog about this, but…”
One of the ways I finished the latter version was to tell her what I’m about to tell you: that I fear I don’t have enough material in my life to be interesting both online and in person. I am only partially joking about this.
And I wonder, in this era of constant communication: how do people have enough to say to say things on so many different platforms? You want me to blog, Twitter, Facebook, blog for other websites, write some decent, non-digital long-form prose and manage to have any good anecdotes left for face to face contact?
In other words: by attempting to keep people entertained on my blog am I dooming myself to a much less entertaining reality?
I don’t mean to get too self-indulgent here: I think many of us have had the experience of telling a friend something funny or interesting, only for them to dismiss us with “yeah, I saw it on Facebook.” People, I fear our ability to communicate with each other is far outpacing our actual need to communicate. Please: tell me you disagree.
OK, I admit it: I am writing about this in part because I have no idea how to begin blogging about the other part of my evening. That would be the part in which, in returning to the world that S’s suited, successful colleagues inhabit for a few drinks, I learned that–though there may be come commonalities between our parallel universes–there are also significant differences.
For one, not surprisingly, the men who live in this world do in fact vote Republican and play golf. For another, more importantly, these men actually hit on women. Like, they make clear that they find you attractive and, possibly, that they would like to take you home.
So uncommon is this direct strategy in my world–the one inhabited by poor, progressive writers and other stripe of artist and student–that I’ve completely forgotten how to respond to it. (As you may recall, I do have a couple of authentic Republicans in my dating history, but it’s been a while.)
And I fear that, unpracticed as I am of late with this tactic, I may have inadvertently rejected someone I did not wholely intend to reject.
I say wholely because I’m not sure whether I meant to or not. I found him interesting, but I worry that is only, or partially, because he’d be interesting to blog about.
But then, I hesitate to blog too much about him, because what if I really do find him interesting for genuine reasons? I wouldn’t want to say too much and spoil my chances.
So instead of revealing any more, I will confess to the other part of my evening–the beginning part–when I spent approximately two and a half hours watching back-to-back episodes of “Sex and the City”: an activity in which I have not indulged for too long a time. My binge was inspired by the reminder from a friend that there is in fact an episode in which Mr. Big does raise the issue of Carrie writing about him–a dilemma on which I am clearly, still, desperate for some guidance.
I did not find said episode last night. I suppose I could ask my friend for more specifics about when this plotline occurs, but finding it myself seems like much more fun.