It’s often I meet people that I think are entirely unique and individual. I gravitate towards the unusual and the fascinating in a body. I find them stimulating and intriguing.
It is not often, however, that I find these wonderfully delightful types of human beings to be unlikable or curious. But I found one.
I had heard all about her and had even exchanged pleasantries with her online before we ever met face to face. Even before we met I was taken aback by the transparency of her insecurities.
She’s not like anyone else and yet, she is like everyone else.
To stand in front of her must feel the same as it did back in the early 1900’s when we were first introduced to the Cheval Glass mirrors. You see yourself reflected back in a large, almost unbelievable, way except there are ripples and divets that don’t belong there. She is like the chameleon on the flowered wallpaper. Frantically changing color in order to blend in, to belong, to fit.
I have never had trouble describing my friends.
For instance, I love my friend Kim. She’s warm, friendly and vivacious with a beautiful toothy smile that illuminates the room. She laughs easily and she always makes me feel like I’m her smartest friend, even though I am not.
Describing someone like a friend should come easily, however it is much easier to describe a stranger than it is to describe a friend. You don’t have to be as cautious or considerate when you’re describing someone you hardly know.
Therefore it perplexed me not to be able to describe this woman, at all.
There was nothing about her that was truly hers.
She was an empty box.
She blended with the group in more ways than just one. She engaged in sexual escapades with one, then another, then another, yet none of her dalliances led to her expulsion from the group. It was almost as if she made such a minor impression on her paramours that the break ups were much the same as brushing a fly from your arm.There were no heartbreaks, no real drama that had any lasting affect, nothing.
I heard she said once that after a few years she had finally found her “purpose” within our circle of friends. So in fulfilling her role of organizer, she took the work of a former member of the clan and signed her name to it. She did this with no shame or humility. She assumed the identity of my friend as if she had never existed.
I guess you could argue that this took balls, but you’d be wrong. There isn’t any bravado involved. She tends to wiggle her way inward, but she does it so quietly that she is a fleeting shadow, a ghost, a nonentity.
There is nothing to be afraid of if you can’t see anything there.
She never disappointed me, not once. She didn’t live up to any of my expectations, but I never expected her to. I thought she might be the life of the party, but she wasn’t. I thought she would be the person everyone revered, but she wasn’t. She doesn’t allow people to get too close. So I wonder how many of her dear friends really even know her.
Does she even have dear friends? I kind of doubt it.
Why am I being so cavalier about this woman, you might wonder? It is because I can’t hurt someone’s feelings when I am convinced they possess none?
It is the classic response of the prostitute that goes “I’ll be whoever you want me to be.” This woman is whomever you want her to be, so long as she benefits in the end. The lady must be paid.
If there is nothing for you to give her, she will look right past you when you walk by. She might smile, but the blankness she feels for you is reflected in her eyes.
What can you do with an empty box?
Fill it with treasures, build a fort, start a fire, make a nest, send a gift in it, stand on it, hide in it, entertain the cat with it, or you can simply toss it out once it’s served it’s purpose and you’re tired of it.
You see, the box is not the prize.
The prize is what you put in it or what you take out of it.
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