I was a happy girl this morning, when I went to work...really proud of myself for having survived my 4th Boot Camp class last night - for having thrown caution to the wind and not being self-conscious despite my Napoleon-Dynamitesque run...and it all went to pot (not even the good kind). I went with some coworkers to have a drink to celebrate a project win, and then hopped into the car to meet Sparkle for the blue hair special in Burbank - rib eye steak, with soup, salad, and choice of ice cream or jello for dessert. JELLO! I can't believe they serve that in restaurants anymore. Seriously.
Anyhow, for someone who only two years ago said to me she didn't think her email had the "reply all" option, Sparkle certainly does love her Blackberry. She's the worst offender I know when it comes to mobile phone etiquette. We have a mutual friend who says that if she took a call from a suicidal friend and heard the other line ringing, she'd tell them to hold on. I believe it.
Sparkle proceeded to show me an oddly-written email from a friend of hers, after their "girlfriends' weekend", and I saw another email "Save the Date" from a mutual friend in her inbox. It's my own fault for not minding my own damn business, and unfortunately for me, I'm still 7 years old, too much of the time. I asked if I could read it and Sparkle, assuming I was copied on said email, said "yes". It was an email for the 70th birthday party of a family friend, to which I was clearly not invited and even as I type it still TOTALLY GETS UNDER MY SKIN. Ya know, I don't like to think of myself as someone who deserves special treatment by any means, and I respect the right of someone to invite whom they like to their own birthday, but why the fuck didn't they want to include me? It makes me feel like every kind word or gesture of theirs is just lip service to please or placate my mother and it nauseates me. They have every right to dislike me outright, and somehow I feel like I could accept that much more easily than what I perceive as a conditional appreciation. Conditional appreciation is the kind of courtesy extended to the high-maintenance and/or ridiculous, like my brother, the Armchair Anarchist. I HATE to be categorized with my brother.
It's really unfortunate that I genuinely enjoy their company, as well, find them fascinating and generous and kind to others, and I love their children. So I guess what I'm dealing with is a bruised ego. Wow. I really am seven years old.
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