The past two months have been productive. I’ve enjoyed some blissful solitude as I plowed through a pile of books, cooked up some divine dishes, listened to my favorite podcasts and a Raymond Chandler audiobook, and, obviously, blogged. I took a short vacation and saw old friends, continued classes at the new yoga studio, attended a lecture, a cycling event, a few shows, and a concert, and kept up with my dance classes. Over the course of all this activity, I’ve gradually let go of my emotional ties to a couple of social groups that have left me unfulfilled and have hung out with some small groups of new acquaintances.
All well and good, until last night a wave of loneliness washed over me. I felt like Carrie Bradshaw in the episode in which she says, in the midst of her book party, “I’m lonely. The loneliness is palpable.”
Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve been ushering out the past, and the future has not shown its face yet. All I know is I suddenly want to be flirted with outrageously, or thrown on a couch and ravished, or, barring a romantic liaison, have an evening that is so outrageously fun it continues into the next day.
I seem to have sprouted a wild hair.
Today I perused through the offerings for the upcoming long weekend and came across several blowout festivals involving some combination of lengthy drives, overnight stays, expensive tickets, and long lists of bands I’ve never heard of. It has all left me baffled. It sounds like a lot of work that would likely result in being surrounded by a bunch of posers either much younger than myself or my age but with strollers in tow.
Instead it looks like I will stick with my original plans: rollerblading with a work acquaintance, cocktails with some dance friends, and a small cultural festival for a few hours with another group. Pleasant, but probably not enough to satisfy the wild hair.