Observations of a different kind

Sometimes, it's hard to be a woman.


*waits for nodding and groaning sounds from around the globe*


I've learned over the years that it can be especially difficult to be my kind of woman. The kind of woman who is not like other women. The kind of woman who gets along with men better than women and who doesn't do the things that other women do. To say it plainly, the kind of woman who doesn't necessarily get along with other women so easily. Or, should I say, maintain those female relationships.


I think about this from time to time.


There are women I've known who have come and gone. Sometimes, it is because of my habit to say whatever is on my mind at any given moment without a filter in place. Sometimes, it is because the other party has a quirk that I can't nudge into a different direction to appease my senses. Sometimes, there is no explanation.


I've wandered away from a few ladies in the last few years. I can think of a few who seemed to want my friendship, but when I gave it, they covered me with their conversation and never allowed me to speak. Considering how much I blog, you'd think I'm a Chatty Cathy. Well, not always. In the company of a conversation overachiever, I sit back and let them have it out. I believe in being an active and engaged listener. I wait for my opportunity. Unfortunately, many times, that opportunity to participate in the art of give and take doesn't always appear. In those situations, I always wonder if I'm even necessary to be there.


I've found myself giving up on those relationships when it's obvious that there won't be a change in that dynamic. After all, if someone is past 30 and hasn't learned to allow someone else to speak, when do they learn? Besides, I've yet to find an appropriately friendly way to say, "Shut the hell up." If someone has distilled that little piece of advice into a cute little Hallmark card, please let me know.


Then there is this little part of my life called "parents dying and family life falling to pieces." I'm not sure which chapter it is in the book that is my life, but I think it starts on page 453. I lamented some time ago about noticing that folks just don't want to hear about the horrible realities of my daily life, even though they asked. Behaviors like that have me questioning this whole thing we carry so dear in our hearts: pleasantries. It's nice that your parents taught you some kind of manners and that you feel it is your duty to continue them, but perhaps sometimes it is better to be real than not at all.


But, then again, there I go being that woman that is not like other women. Silly me.


See, what I want is a collection of female friends who are real with each other. It's asking a lot, I know. I watch a show like "Sex and the City", and granted, most of the episodes were written by a fantastically gifted gay man, and I wonder how any woman can maintain relationships like that. Are they real? Do they exist? Who are these people?


No one ever taught me how to be a Carrie or a Miranda.


I've had some great female relationships that have waned either from distance or change of circumstances. It's easy to look back and think, "Ah. That was my SATC moment." But, not really.


It might be my destiny to lament and joke on the Internet and perhaps churn out a poor selling novel one of the days, but it doesn't seem to be my destiny to have that gaggle of ladies that I truly adore.


I haven't met them yet, have I? They come with baggage. They come with horrible husbands who hit on me and make me feel awful for their wives. They say things that seem to indicate some kind of jealousy or competition is going on between us that I didn't sign up for. They stay single all of their lives and then look at my child longingly as if to say, "How dare you have one of those when I haven't yet." Or, they stay single into their post-reproductive years and focus on things that I can't relate to while simultaneously not relating to my own situation. They are suicidal. They are insane. They are, in essence, women.


Now, before you get your knickers into a twist, realize that I am not above any of these behaviors. Well, I'm above some of them. The sleazy husband thing really makes me ill. But, perhaps I look upon these behaviors with disdain because, well, I understand them. I KNOW them. I've been the talker who wouldn't shut up. Phil can tell you that. I've been the jealous and competitive girl. I longed for a baby when I was having miscarriages and my friends had kids hanging off of their teets. I've felt distanced from others when I didn't feel kinship to their situations.


I've been suicidal. I've been insane.


So, dear inner therapist, apparently I have contempt for myself. I'm not comfortable in my own skin, so how can I expect to be a fabulous host to a house full of women? One of these days, I suppose, I should learn the intricacies of the female friendship. One of these days, I should learn to love myself.


So, I guess what I'm saying is, it's not you. It's me.


Do I charge myself for a full hour of therapy now?