I don't want to hear about people's effing holiday plans. Or their new shoes. Or how wonderful their new apartment is. Or how much they're looking forward to their wedding/engagement/anniversary celebration. I am officially sick of the veneer of happiness.
I wish people would gush to me about what in their lives makes them insane or talk about how when their boyfriends chew their spaghetti funny, it makes them crazy, or how New York is nothing what they thought it would be. It's not for me. (Believe me, if I knew I was signing up for endless workdays with no respect, no outlet for the writing I went to school for, no hope of ever owning a piece of property, and relationships that look better on paper than in real life, I might have decided to move to San Diego. Seriously.)
I want to hear about everyone's deepest disappointments. I want to know that I'm not the only one who gets home from work at 10:30 p.m. toting a bottle of wine from the deli because maybe that will ease me into enough sleep to forget about the previous 13 hours. I want to hear about lies, about dissatisfactions we never thought we'd come upon, and about life and how it never, ever goes the way we planned -- or the way we were told it would/should go.
I want to hear about Bible class and the moment we suspected we were being fed something slanted. Or the time we found our dad's porn and never looked at him the same way again. Or when our girlfriend told us something awful and we stayed with her anyway.
I want to hear the thoughts that keep us up at night, the stupid worries that we fear will plague us for years. The regrets that might never go away. The one thing that keeps us from thinking we're special. The one thing we want to tell a cab driver when we're drunk. That one thing about us that's too horrible for anyone else to know.
That is what is interesting. That is what is real. That is what is human.
(Not drapes. Or rings. Or vacations. Or dresses.)