Have you ever complained about fair-weather friends, Gentle reader? Those evil friends who are happy only to be with you when you are happy, who do not care to listen to your problems, who do not offer you their support, their therapeutic assistance, their unstinting love to see you through unconditionally? Those friends who are only there for a “good time”?
God, I wish I had some of those.
For I have realized, gradually, over the years, that for some inexplicable reason I am a “stormy-weather” friend, and that, despite the fact that I am not, as you may have guessed, a particularly nice person, nor one who has a lot of spare time on her hands, I am the kind of person whom others turn to in their in their time of trouble. Personally, I think it is because of my British accent, only Iranians do it too. So maybe not. Maybe it’s the aura of misfortune and angry joy which comes off me. Or maybe my expressed ideology, inherited from my mommy dearest, that we should help people when they ask us for help, no bars held.
I am not humble-bragging- I don’t need to. I was thinking this as we strolled with a new-ish friend down the waterfront yesterday afternoon, listening to her tale of times of trouble and woe. There, we bumped into an old-ish friend, happy as a clam with her new partner. A friend whom I don’t see with any regularity, though one who was happy enough to spend time with us in her period of enforced and traumatic singledom. The thought unbidden crept into my mind, as I watched my new-ish friend compliment my kids, buy us drinks, and generally express happiness at having us around. You too, I thought, will find someone in a few months, and you will not have time for me and my kids any more. It won’t be the first time we have been sold to happy relationship, and it won’t be the last. Misfortune, as everyone well knows, is contagious.