Shoe Effigy

I am a boring American.

Today I spent 1.5 hours picking out a pair of Birkenstocks. My last pair, after 17 years of good, honest service to my feet, finally gave up the ghost. I was literally walking on a strip of leather with some crumbs of cork attached (see above).

I wanted to buy the exact same pair of Birks, or to at least get them rebuilt, but the store owner said, when he saw them, “Please put those poor things out of their misery.” They have traveled the world with me, ridden in a backpack in Australia, waded in the ocean to spear fish in Japan, crossed both the Atlantic and the Pacific. I felt sad for them. I am not a person who likes change. Look at this website. Eighteen months and exactly one reorganization after 150 posts or so. No, I am not a change person.

They did not have the exact pair of Birks that I owned, and I tried on 15 pairs (at least) trying to pick another style. I don’t like other styles. I’ve had this pair since I was 13, and clearly my tastes have not changed much. But, finally, the poor salesman brought out a pair just for sizing purposes, and I recognized them — the other pair. That pair that I nearly bought 17 years ago when I bought the original Birks. I couldn’t decide between the two of them, then finally I chose the brown, but I always wondered — should I have bought the suede? And here they were. So I bought them, my 2nd choice, 17 years after the fact.

The point is that I am boring, and I wonder if this is why it is hard for me to make friends. I am not good at change, and I am not good at light conversation. This a lethal combination for new friendships. Whenever I do make a friend, I am usually undyingly faithful, even if they don’t know it. For example, I really pissed off a friend of mine in college, and he has never spoken to me again, and occasionally I have an entire day where I feel guilty about it. It happened 10 years ago. Japanese people often say I am very Japanese in this respect. I still have the first gift I was ever given by a friend that I remember — a china bell on my 10th birthday. It is in my guest room. I have a whole chest full of letters from students. Once I make a friend, I usually keep in touch with that person for years and years. My best friend moved away when I was 14 and we have never been less than 5 hours drive apart since and we are still really close. But I totally suck at making new friends.

Today Marti and I spent the afternoon with some newly-acquired acquaintances, and I felt really bad, because I was so boring, I actually bored myself. Sometimes, because I am occasionally very funny in the blog, or I make a wry comment at just the right time, people get the mistaken impression that I am interesting. You know, because I have travelled over a good part of the world and know curse-words in multiple languages. That sort of thing. But in real life, as is so often the case, I’m kind of boring. I live in the world of the imagination. I had a really hilarious college professor who was exactly the same. He would stand up in front of everyone and make us all laugh, but in real life, he was very, very shy. I could tell he lived in terror of his office hours. And I understood — perfectly. He lived in a very funny, quirky scientific world, and could talk about lighting things on fire or throwing potassium “bombs” into acid ponds, but that was the world of his imagination. In real life he had a small office without a window.

I once had a teacher tell me, “When I think of you, Michelle, I think in chartreuse and neon orange.” I always thought that was so strange. When I think of myself, I think of khaki and beige (with perhaps a glimmer of emerald green). These days I have to limit my purchases of khaki pants — I get too many pairs of the exact same thing. I seriously read about IRAs, CDs and investment options. There is an old lady side to me.

The other thing that is hard is that I don’t really know how to make small talk. For example, today I went to a talk by Demetria Martinez, who wrote Mother Tongue, a really great book set here in Tucson. She was part of the Sanctuary Movement. I could have said to my new acquaintances, hey, I worked with a lot of activists here on child trafficking issues. Or, what do you think the political ramifications of the state’s new immigration bills might be? But this is not the sort of talk that inspires friendships — at least, not usually. So I don’t know what to say. I mean, I could take a less serious tack, like this — since I’ve been pregnant, I dream of kinky sex a lot. Which is perfectly true. But it’s not exactly the thing to say at an afternoon literary gathering, now is it?

So I don’t say anything at all. Or I say the most banal things. Because I have found, over time, that it is not good to let out too much too soon. Honesty is not always the best policy. Sometimes I get tired of it and just say what I think. And I guess I do that more than other people. But at 30, I have been canned, rejected, tormented, disciplined, dropped, excluded, dumped and demonized for saying what I think. I have had my own family tell me to leave the country. I have lost good jobs. I have been transferred off projects. I’m tired right now. For heaven’s sake, I’m pregnant and my right hip hurts. Can’t a person get one “get out of jail free” pass every once in a while?

So this is what I am today — a boring American.

How’s the weather where you are?