To the Fellow Introvert at that Big Social Gathering

Remember that one time at that big party where you knew no one but the host, who was hosting and therefore didn't have as much time for you as you would have liked?  I remember it too.  We met there.  I didn't know your name, and you didn't know mine.  We may have exchanged them, and we may have not.  I've met you in many forms.

Sometimes you were too shy.  I tried to talk to you, but you didn't really want to.  I'm okay with that now, though I missed your company then.  

Sometimes you were the one to approach me.  Like a flower to the sun, I reveled in your attention, your words, the little bits of you you let me know in that brief time we were together.  You asked for my address, and I gave it to you, but you never wrote.  I waited, and prayed, and wondered what might have happened to you, or what I might have done.  After a year, I stopped.  I guess our lifelong friendship wasn't meant to be.  We likely will never meet again, and though therefore we shall never be lifelong friends, we were friends for those few hours, and I treasure that.  

And that time with you then helped me to realize what the true circumstances of our relationship are.  

We are lonely, you and I.  All those people, all talking, laughing, chattering...enjoying themselves in their own way, but it is not our way.  So we look on, and then we find each other.  And then we laugh and talk and chat in our way, for though we have never met before, we are quite great friends.  We keep each other company during that party, but when the time is up, we leave, with the implicit knowledge that we shall not be seeing one another again.  

We don't know each other's names, but like all good friends, we are there when we need each other.  That party was a lovely experience, and I have you to thank you for it.  

Thank you for your time, for your words, and for your silence.  It was fun.  :)

—your fellow introvert

On My Introduction to P.G. Wodehouse

P.G. Wodehouse, as far as I can tell, is a British author.  If he isn't actually British I will be very surprised because his books are about as British as British can get.

If you're interested on learning more about P.G. Wodehouse, a link to his Wikipedia page is here.  (See, I do all the hard work for you!  Don't you just love me?)

But now onto my experience.  Several weeks or so ago, I briefly perused a post (perhaps this one?) and it mentioned P.G. Wodehouse and tea, and, more specifically, insinuated that they went well together.  As you, dear reader, likely well know, any book that goes well with tea is certainly a book to try.

Fast forward to a week ago.  I was poking through the shelves of my local Half Price Books store, trying to find some of the items on my list.  (I say list and not List, because, while most of the books on the list are also on the List, I was looking specifically for those books on the list and not my more comprehensive List.)  I had no luck in this venture, excepting finding The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain, which wasn't even for me; my mother had requested said book, it being for my brother's future book report.

Events then transpired very quickly; for this part of the narration, dear reader, I choose interesting reading for yourself rather than direct accuracy for historians.  Why historians should ever be researching me is another matter altogether, but I hold that it is always best to be prepared.

Bending up, craning down, and whirling about in the strange dance that only a registered book addict can successfully do, I looked through the shelves.  I don't know what I was hoping for.  Perhaps I was waiting for the Right Book to fly off the shelves and hit me in the face.

That did not happen.  What did, however, happen, was that some brightly colored books at the end of a bookshelf, at approximately eye-ish level, caught my eye, and I witnessed a "WODE" in a sans-serif font before I moved on.  But wait!  "WODE"?  Wasn't there that one author in that one blog post that went well with tea?  By then I was directly in front of the books, and I saw it neatly writ on the brightly-colored spine:  "WODEHOUSE".  I pawed through the titles.  One in particular caught my eye, but something in the description made me think that I should not start with it, so I put it back.  My hand wavered over the rest of them, then I turned and walked away.

A lap around the store, and I returned to the "WODEHOUSE" books.  I should have to leave soon, and I needed to make a decision once and for all.  I looked through them again, and in the end, it was pecuniary matters that decided my choice.  Jeeves in the Offing was a dollar less than the others.

Back at home with my new treasure, I opened it and for a few blissful moments was supremely happy.  Then my expectations were rather rudely popped, as a balloon.  I found P.G. Wodehouse's style to be rather plodding and somewhat difficult to wade through.  But the book was mine, bought, and I felt an obligation to soldier through.  So I went on, slogging through the words.  A few pages in, however, I found myself not so much slogging as slowly marching, and then I found myself at an ambling walk.  By the end of the second chapter, I was at a brisk jog and had thoroughly come to the conclusion that P.G. Wodehouse was an acquired taste, but once you acquired it you would certainly want it again.

And that, dear reader, was my introduction to P.G. Wodehouse.