One of the central difficulties of being me (apart from the vast amount of fabulousness that makes me the envy of the world) is that my neurotic core is masked by a slightly cool exterior.

Today I ventured into a world I generally avoid — a work party. The president was having an end of summer fete at his lovely home, and I figured what the fuck, I should go. My reasoning was many-fold (or should that be manifold, or is a manifold an engine part?). Anyway a bunch of things ran through my mind.

One was, shit, here you are in a strange new world, why not act like them and be friendly. (Even though some Bay Area friendly is suspect. I’m pretty sure “Have a nice day,” was coined in this ‘hood above all others.)

Another was, fucking shit, one of the things that made my last day job fucking awesome (in the sense where awesome means gave me so much to whine about and scream about in sheer agony) was the total lack of genuine camraderie. The big company summer picnic one year involved their clearing a small parking lot, putting up a tent, lining up no more than five bales of hay for decoration and having lunch outdoors for roughly 1.5 hours. Woo doggies, what a party.

Their Christmas party (excuse me, non-demoninational holiday party) required tickets to be purchased in advance to the tune of $10-25, which did not include a cash bar.

The leader of my group for the first few years I was there said she was having an open house at her place to bring the group together and thank them for their work the minute she moved to a new place. For a few more years after moving, there were some “maybe next years.”

Finally, I headed to the party, because I so desperately want to be just like all of the other kids, a feeling I haven’t shaken since about 2nd grade when I realized I wasn’t that much like the other kids.

It’s actually a rather fucked up neuroses in that I have a wicked non-conformist streak, which I’m gathering at the age of 41 ain’t likely slipping itself under a bushel any time soon. On top of that, that little quirk makes me appear far more hip and cool and radical than I may in fact be. (As an example of that, throughout most of my adult life I’ve dropped into conversations where it was assumed (a) I’ve tried drugs, (b) the drugs have probably been diverse and varied and ( c) I may indeed be a sexual freak.)

In truth, I’ve been in the presence of many more drugs than I myself would have consumed, because at the end of the day I’m kind of a pussy and feared the consequences. Ditto on the freaky-deaky, kinky sports scene. (Yeah, yeah, I acknowledge that this upstanding young man once walked me through the internal dialogue that answers to your inner freak. But, I still contend I’m more dullard than swinger.)

So, here I am at a party, talking like I have some ability to converse. Looking like I have some comfort with myself. Appearing for all intents and purposes as though I were cool enough to drink wine and relax on a sunny, Sunday afternoon.

I might have looked so cool in my pink sunglasses, jeans low on my hips and basic black that others were probably worried what I thought of them.

No one generally suspects that my internal voices are looking only for me to fit in.

Sad, huh?

By the way, for the first time I think ever I did the work social thing in the company of a man, the best boy-o in the world, good old M.

I have completely mixed feelings about the legitimacy a relationship seems to bestow on my current life. I’m happy for the relationship, of course, but why is my man’s existence a reflection on my normalcy.

We ain’t really come that long a way, baby.