Our true friends are those who are with us when the good things happen. They cheer us on and are pleased by our triumphs. False friends only appear at difficult times, with their sad, supportive faces, when, in fact, our suffering is serving to console them for their miserable lives.
It’s no secret to those who know me and care to ask that the whole job-hunt has me pretty miserable these days. I could say that I’m trying to harness the power of positive thinking and all that jazz, but in reality there are as many days that end with tears as those that end with smiles or just exhausted ambivalence.
Yet I still don’t feel compelled to blog about it.
About a year ago, you could hardly stop me from pouring out my misery online at being single and the horrible injustices I was suffering while attempting to find someone suitable to date. Or, if not suitable, at least not wanting to make me scoop my brains out with a spork to forget the encounter.
Then I found someone – and things were really steadily going up in my life. Great man, great job, great dog, great home. That lasted about a year – you’d think that wouldn’t be long enough to erase the cynicism, vitriol and spite in my wee, black heart when one of those ceased to exist in my world.
You’d be right. And still, I felt no compulsion to blog about it.
And I didn’t really understand why. Until now.
I attempted to throw a party last weekend. For all intents and purposes, most things about my social circle and the invite were the same. Early reports indicated it would be an even bigger success, since the location was far more desirable to potential party-goers. Last year, 90% of the people who RSVP’d “Yes” attended, plus a motley assortment of extras. This year, barely half the confirmed attendees bothered showing up.
This year I’m not nearly as interesting.
A year ago I was a dating blogging sensation, who had just entered into a relationship with a man who had his own fair share of scandal.
This year? We’re just another set of yuppies. For the most part, fortunate and exceedingly happy ones.
I could fill pages and pages with cutting testimony of my job-hunt frustrations and foibles.
But underneath it all lies a desire to keep these personal feelings for myself and those who have more than an idle curiosity about them.
I’d rather live quieter, knowing who my true friends are.
I’d rather be happy, than interesting.