Joining In.

This year marks the 60^th anniversary of Queen Elizabeth’s accession to the British throne, and there’s some sort of do planned at the village hall. Everybody’s had invitations, of course, even me. I’ll say that bit again:

Even me.

OK, the question I now have to consider is whether to join in. That woman I wrote about once (was her name Margaret? I don’t remember) chided me for not joining in. Well, the problem is that I’m not really the joining in type. Social occasions push a certain button with me. I look at the faces, hear the vocal tones, watch the body language, and they all seem superficial. People are behaving as they’re supposed to behave – as they’re expected to behave. Their behaviour has little to do with who they really are inside, or how they’re really feeling. It’s polite; everything is geared to the narrow confines of collective consensus. Or so it seems to me; and I’m probably wrong; or maybe jaundiced in my perceptions of my fellow beings; or maybe it’s perfectly right that people should behave in accordance with received expectations.

And do you know what really bugs me? If I attend a social function, I do try to fit in. I can even be successful because I had lots of practice before I found my way beyond the tram lines. Part of me even wants to fit in, because the group dynamic is strong and hard to resist. But there’s another part of me getting a little annoyed and saying ‘Why are you fitting in? You can see beyond this. This is shallow. What the **** are you doing here?!’ And it doesn’t usually take long for that side to gain the ascendant because playing the ‘fitting in’ role is becoming ever harder as time goes by. It takes effort, and the conflict between the two combatants in my head becomes tiresome. So I leave early, if I can. If I can’t, I suffer. It’s one of many reasons why weddings are so exceedingly torturous to me.

Oh well, I expect I’ll put in an appearance. I’ll even dress appropriately for the occasion, which in my case means exchanging the sweater for a jacket. The shirt, jeans and trainers stay. And it might give me some blogging material, if nothing else.

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Do you know, somebody is currently holding a mirror up to me and saying ‘Look at you. You’re getting old. You’re not fit, strong, good looking or virile any more. You’re not even sociable.’ That’s the bad bit, isn’t it? ‘Not even sociable.’

I expect I’ll live. For a while. Rant over.