Some of my dear friends came to visit me from Charlottesville this weekend, and we got into a conversation about blogging.
“Our friend has a blog,” said J.
“Oh yea? What’s it about?” said I.
“It’s just about her cute, happy life. She bakes muffins in the morning and takes a picture and blogs about it. She blogs about her garden. Etc.”
“EW, BLAAAGHHH#@(*%^@(#^%(,” I reacted, pretending to choke on my own tongue and vomit up the bite of pasta salad I had just taken.
J didn’t understand my reaction. She thought the happiness radiating out of her friend’s blog was lovely and contagious. But I would rather stick a burning hot needle in my eyeball than read a blog about somebody’s perfect life (especially after my brief, depressing foray into reading Pioneer Woman, which my cousin quickly cured me of). If you’re going to blog about yourself, blog about how hilariously bad you are at cooking or driving, or that awkward first date you went on last week, or your daily struggles to control your pathological lying. But for GOD’S SAKE… PLEASE don’t blog about that cute e-mail your boyfriend wrote you, or the thriving produce in your prolific garden, or the fact that you baked MUFFINS this morning for your husband and perfect, towheaded toddlers. GROSS.
Why do I feel this way? It’s not the whole “misery loves company” cliché, because, by and large, I am actually a very happy, un-miserable person. And it’s not that your monologue about your well-earned weight loss is making me jealous, because I could do a masochistic pepper-and-lemonade body cleanse too if I wanted to drop a few pounds from my waistline. There is just nothing funny or interesting or relatable about people who only talk about how great their lives are.
I’m not just talking about blogs, either. I feel the same way about picking my friends. My favorite kinds of people are the people who, when you haven’t talked to them in a while and ask how they are, instead of saying “I’m great! Just made some strawberry cupcakes for John’s birthday, and we’re about to go to Home Depot to look at paint colors for the nursery! How are you?”, they fill you in on interesting details, like: “I’m pretty good. I didn’t get that raise I asked for, but my boss shamelessly hit on me last night at a company happy hour, so at least I’ll be severely uncomfortable at work for the next three weeks.” Or, “I’m alright. I’m heading to the Outer Banks this week with that barista from Starbucks I was telling you about. Wait, did I tell you about him? He may or may not be a serial rapist, but at least he has a steady job.”
Maybe it’s just me, but I find perfection to be incredibly dull and alienating. It’s people’s imperfections that make them endearing. Does this make me a bitter asshole, or do you guys agree?