Downside to moving to a place where no one knows you: You don’t know anyone either.
Here’s a list of people I’ve almost become friends with since moving here.
- My banking lady. She’s nice, she’s young, she dresses nice and she has two tiny dogs. She’s the perfect package. Only thing is– she’s my banking lady. I don’t know why, but that just doesn’t seem right. I’d feel like she was keeping track of my checking account balance while we were at the bar. I’d try to buy her a drink and she’d be like, “No, it’s cool, really. You can’t afford it.”
- A state official. She’s old, but she’s feisty. She calls once a week, but that’s because she has an obligation to the press. She likes my writing too. But… she’s old. I can’t take that to the bar. That just wouldn’t be fair.
- An old man. I met him at a meeting for a town group. He’s funny, he doesn’t take flack, he knows how to spell my name and he called me “a beautiful young lady,” and let’s be real, that’s all that matters. But… he’s old. I can’t take that to the bar. That just wouldn’t be fair.
And really, outside of work, all I’ve wanted to do to this point is just watch “Orange Is The New Black” and pig out on cheap potato chips before passing out for the night.
I should put an ad out, but I can’t put one in my own paper, because I can’t seem any sadder of a person than I probably already do to the entire staff. Today I ate a pizza sandwich… in my office… by myself… with a pizza sandwich. That’s two pieces of pizza. Put together. To make a sandwich. Made of pizza.
It’s only been three weeks, right? It’ll get better, right? I’ll eventually be able to stay up later and go find myself a sassy friend at the farmer’s market some weekend. Is that how you make friends? I don’t know, other than supporting local businesses, I can’t see what else a farmer’s market would be good for. I’ll try there.