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BY LORI SENDER
NEWJERSEYNEWSROOM.COM
Once again, I'm struck by how difficult socializing is. I have this intractable, yes, as my mother would say, selfish side that wants to be in the thick of it ... only I can't quite get a group mobilized to form that reasonable periphery.
So I become the joiner in. The friend of the friend for the weekend. This might, in theoretical terms, succeed, if it was a truly well-fit, select group ... say a group of creative-writer mom types, each with one child of ten-years-old, and a rather quiet husband of sweet disposition, who happily observes while us women laugh and joke and kvetch about various rejection letters from random literary magazines and bemoan the closing of the regional section of The N.Y. Times, at which point we all scream and jump up and down realizing that's why our names sounded so familiar.
And then it's off to communal cross-country skiing with our ten-year-olds and husbands.
No, that might become competitive. I could just picture it, us women standing on a cafeteria line at some weekend winter retreat, trays in hand, comparing bylines, quoting from our own work, finally sitting down to a round breakfast table for an ad hoc freelance writers networking session, as our only children stare morosely across from each other and our quiet husbands eat.Back to reality. My friend Bonnie calls to ask if I'm in for another weekend at Frost Valley with the other four couples from last year.
"They've all said yes and we'll be on the top floor of the lodge this year so the kids can just run around through the hallways."
I think back. Those running around kids, a few of them the youngest of three children, cute yes, but still, firmly toddlers, the moms tete-a-tete whispering sweet nothings about who knows what, truly, since I never quite managed to jump in. I remember one mom and I sharing a snow tube swishing down a rather steep hill as she screamed holy murder. which was all fine and well except for it being in my ear. Halfway down the hill, spinning out of control, I alluded to her piercing irritant, which was followed by an interminable spell of awkward silent tubing.
"I don't know, Bonnie, that group, well, it just didn't work for me. I know they're your friends, but frankly I found them pretty annoying, except for the blonde's husband who was actually funny.
"He's the annoying one, Lori."
"Oh. Well, let me ask Rob."
And then the meltdown. The midlife meltdown. As in I know I'll never get a group I like to go up there, and my son would love it, and why am I so difficult and demanding and as my mother would say, never satisfied.
"Fine Bonnie. We'll do it."
"Great, you'll love it, what's your credit card number?"
