I haven’t seen her for five years. Flushing, New York is not so far away, but I’ve never gathered enough energy to go there. I know I should, but as a self proclaimed sloth, I’m true to my indolent self. She’s nice, girlish, sweet, and polite. In contrast, I’m awkward, impetuous, pensive, impertinent. She’s very good with communication and keeping in contact, but I’m rather bad at that. Despite our differences, we’ve been friends for almost eight years. I confess that I’m not very open and straightforward and revealing about myself when I talk with her. I’m quite afraid of being judged by her conventional opinions. Of course she has conventional opinions, even though I tend to think she has all the sweet and good parts of the convention.
“Do something that you want to do since you have time in your hands,” she said nicely over the phone. “I don’t feel like doing anything. I am not in good spirit.” I said in dejection. “You said you want to do this and you want to do that. Just do it.” She said, trying to assume an authoritarian voice but failing it, as always. “I am depressed.” I said. She tried to change the topic. So we talked about one of her friends who used to stay with her. “W is jumping to a new job again.” W has been struggling all his life–his wife left him; his kid wants money from him; his girlfriend nags him. Poor W. He’s such a nice guy and it is infuriating to know that he is being taken advantage of by all these people who are supposed to be endearing to him. On the other hand, it might be W who’s impressing these ideas on my sweet impressionable friend. His wife may not be as heartless as he describes; his kid not so wasteful; his girlfriend not so unworthy.