Sometimes it’s hard to know how it comes by, or how it’s triggered but you just cannot seem to stop the gushing forth of a sadness that seems to have no bottom and no real reason for existing. Or maybe it does.

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I’ve come to the conclusion that no matter where I go or what I do, I am always going to be the outsider looking in. It seems to be a trait coded into my DNA, not unlike my almond-shaped eyes or my unruly hair.

Most of the time I’m quite okay with that role: I like solitude. I enjoy silence. I enjoy laughing at people who don’t know how to count properly(fyi: if you’re turning 30, you’re going on three decades on this earth, not two); I relish typos; I like unflattering celebrity photographs; I delight in gossip and harbor a token sad feeling for those talked-about before purchasing my next copy of Star Magazine.

But I know deep inside that I’ll never be talked about, other than as the peculiar person who stands outside. Maybe those in the inside looking out might find me interesting or intriguing; a couple will be kind enough to open the door and perhaps even chat. Most, however, are far too pleased with their own selves to take notice of the weird lurker who’s not even party to their banality.

Once the door is opened, I tend to linger around the vestibule and somehow the party moves to another house.

Once again, outside. Looking in to another venue.

Then again, I think Groucho Marx said it best:

“I sent the club a wire stating, PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON’T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT ME AS A MEMBER.”
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I hate my husband’s business trips.