And they're all neurotic, to a man.
This afternoon, after work, I went to a happy hour sponsored by the Writer's League of Texas. It was half a bar full of people forcing themselves to go and shake each other's hands and initiate conversation, during which they struggled to remain positive about their work and their prospects.
Now, my friends will say, "Cobbalicious? You were nervous? Aren't you always the peppiest among us?"
Well, that's among us. Not among a half-bar full of strangers. In that setting, I feel like a huge idiot, to say the least. I feel like I'd rather eat my pinky finger than look for another notch in a conversational clump where I can walk up and say, "Hi, I'm Cobbalicious, and I've produced plays but that's about it!"
Hence the neuroses.
Tonight, I went to a production of One Flea Spare, and wow. That script. Wow. Wow.
I took some blah knitting, some orange fuzzy novelty yarn I'm using up in a skinny scarf of 2x2 ribbing. And the three ladies behind me who were, if I had to guess, a bit past retirement age, began chatting away with me about knitting, then the play, then traveling. They were very nice and interesting.
And it struck me, as relaxing as knitting is for those of us who do it, it also seems to calm those around us. For instance, the other week on the bus, a strange man with lots of facial hair and a big cooler full of ice and something else (could have been organs for all I know) gets on board and sits behind me. After a bit, he peeks over my shoulder as I was knitting Thermal. He asks if it's a scarf, and I tell him it's a sweater.
Then he tells me all about how his mother used to make him quilts, and how fun it was to watch her.
As a writer, these moments are so lovely-- when someone willingly shares such personal information, without pretense.
I am still desperate to know what was inside that cooler.