A year ago, I received a diagnosis of aggressive bladder cancer. Since then and three surgeries later, I think I'm probably going to live. However, I'm a bit livid that people I've know for over 40 years don't seem to have a lot to do with me anymore. It could be that they don't know what to say or they feel uncomfortable. It could be that they've bought into the idea that cancer is contagious. I really don't know. I only know that after all these years, real-life friends seem few and far between.
Then I think more about it. These friends and I, despite knowing each other for decades, have very little in common. They love sports. I was a wimpy kid and didn't participate in scholastic sports. As I got older and became less wimpy, I got into sports like MMA and downhill racing (via skiis) and never had the time of day for football, basketball or baseball. That makes me sort of an odd man out. They don't know or like my sports and I don't know or like theirs.
They are adept at fixing engines of any type. Car engines, lawn mower motors, bike motors. I am not.
The empty space between my view of life and theirs is an insurmountable abyss. But I still liked the company and the interaction. It kind of hurts my feeling that they aren't there for me. However, on hindsight, perhaps I don't have enough time to spend on counter-productive friendships and need to seek out kindred souls and kindred spirits.
Anyway, it makes me sad and a little mad.
No Offense Meant to Your Innate Sensibilities
Take a former high-speed military guy, add a flagrantly narrow view of music and the arts, ignite the passion and conviction that so often come only in later years, mix in 30 years of psycho-spiritual experimentation, a healthy belief that the Ashkenazi and Sephardics really ARE the REAL Jews, add a dollop of cancer and poverty and VOILA! I have come.