The Joys of Living Vicariously

People always say you should actively live your own life, not passively experience life through others. It's such a commonly held belief that it is often regarded as an obvious fact, a truth universally acknowledged. I, of course, believe this as well–what sane person wouldn't?–but I also secretly love living my vicarious life. Like otaku, or bored housewives in suburbia, or the creepy, balding, middle-aged guys who live in their parents' basements and play video games all day, I have a hidden life that takes place in books, in films, on television, and online, and it is so much more exciting and vibrant than my day-to-day existence.

Don't be so shocked, Unknown Reader. The name GeekMom kind of gives it away, doesn't it? I'm geeky and nerdy, and we geeks and nerds don't often mix well with normal people. I say the wrong things, forget to acknowledge people, enthuse about the wrong topics, go in for a hug at the wrong moment, or flinch when other people hug me unexpectedly. I frequently embarrass my children with my odd behavior (Well, I do have a teenager and they're embarrassed even by normal parents, so that doesn't really count).

For instance, I keep up a running conversation with other cars on the road when I'm driving ("Oh, nice move, Mr. Toyota, thanks for pulling in front of me without signalling" "Hey, Lady, get off your cell phone–the light has changed and we're all waiting for you!" "La la la, I'm driving an SUV so I can take up half of your lane as well as my own!"), and this is a great embarrassment for my 10-year-old daughter. She turns to her friend and says, "Don't pay any attention to Mama. She always talks to other cars. I've learned to live with it." Then she gives a tiny sigh. Poor child, how she suffers!

Okay, end of digression. The truth is, I'm usually uncomfortable around normal people. I'm terrible at parties. When I was in high school and college, I used to hang out by the potato chip bowl (Why is there always a big bowl of potato chips at parties? Is it some sort of party requirement? Must remember to Google this), steadily eating one chip after another while successfully avoiding all conversation. Also, since I don't really like drinking much, I can't even use that to loosen up. Though I really needed a drink after all those salty chips.

As a fifty-year old divorcee who doesn't have full-time work and has primary custody of a pre-teen daughter and a teenage son, a dog, and several cats, my life is fairly routine. Not a lot of excitement there. So what is the solution to add a little zip to my life? Vicarious living! Hurrah!

My favorite source of vicarious living is books.  Charles Dickens is great for vicarious living, as are Michael Ondaatje, Kate Atkinson, Arthur Conan Doyle, Dorothy Sayers, J.R.R. Tolkien, and J.K. Rowling (the Harry Potter series--I haven't read The Casual Vacancy yet). For vicarious romance, however, nothing beats Jane Austen. That Mr. Darcy! That Captain Wentworth! Mr. Ferrars and Colonel Brandon! Swoon! (At this point, I have probably alienated all of my heterosexual male readers. Don't worry, guys, I'll talk about Star Trek and Doctor Who and Dune in a later post!)

The point is, I get all the thrill of romantic tension, the fluttery feelings, the doubts ("Does he love me?"), the triumphs ("He does!"), the promise of future bliss ("Reader, I married him." Yes, I know that's Bronte, not Austen, she remarked testily), and the warm afterglow as I close the book.

All that without the guy leaving his dirty socks on the bedroom floor, toothpaste globs in the bathroom sink, or the New York Times scattered all across the room, with the crossword half filled out, incorrectly, in pen. Not that Mr. Darcy would ever do any of those things! In any case, I've come to terms with the fact that all my ideal men were invented by women writers, and are thus unlikely to be found anywhere in the real world. So why not love as well as live vicariously?

Then, of course, there are movies. All Jane Austen novels have been made into movies (including some that probably shouldn't have been–does anyone really need a film version of Northanger Abbey?), and there are so many other worlds to disappear into. And there are television series. Wish you were involved in politics and great affairs of state? Watch "The West Wing"! Wish you were a spy? Watch "MI-5" ("Spooks" in the U.K.)! Wish you were brilliant and could solve baffling crimes? Watch "Sherlock"! Wish you were brilliant and could solve mysterious ailments? Watch "House"! Wish you descended from English nobility? Watch "Downton Abbey" or "Upstairs, Downstairs"! The ways of escaping your mundane existence are myriad. I won't even go into the Internet and vlog channels at this point, because my post is getting much too long, according to my blogging mentor, who thinks my paragraphs are too long as well. I'll save some thoughts for future posts. In the meantime, Mr. Darcy and I are meeting for coffee, so I have to go.

Starting Out

"Bloggers are self-indulgent, narcissistic, and far too full of self-importance. I mean, who wants to read the random musings of a person of no distinction?" That's what I used to think, when I read articles about the rapid proliferation of bloggers on the Web. Who on earth thinks their own personal ramblings would be of the remotest interest to any but themselves and a few close friends? Yet here I am, shortly after my 50th birthday, embarking on a blog.

Why am I doing this? Perhaps because, when I was young, I desperately wanted to be a writer, and could imagine no future in which I was not. Yet here I am at 50, with only one unpublished novella (it's awful--don't ask!) to my name, and no time in my life to write. So here is the great experiment: if I keep a blog, it will force me to write on a weekly basis, and to put those words out into the greater world for perusal, then perhaps gradually I will learn the discipline and get the courage to write those novels that have been banging around in my head for decades (well, pieces of them--I have a lot of trouble with endings). I know it's a big leap from blog entry to full-blown novel, but bear with me, Unknown Reader. (Also, please don't write anything too mean in your comments--I'm very sensitive and apt to curl up into a ball of misery for a day or two if you're cruel)

So, what does one talk about in a blog? I have no particular area of expertise, but I do love words, and conversation, especially witty conversation. I would have no trouble living in an Oscar Wilde play, a P.G. Wodehouse short story, or a Jane Austen novel. It would be bliss! Except for the fact that I would be the dullest character in there, as I am not particularly gifted at repartee. Oh God! Would I be the equivalent of a Lady Bracknell, an Aunt Agatha, or a female Mr. Collins? Actually, when I come to think of it, Lady Bracknell is rather witty, even if she's awful, so that wouldn't be too bad.

In any case, I do not live in any of those places, but in Philadelphia, a city not known for its eloquence or wit. It is the birthplace of the exclamation "Yo!"; it refers to itself as "Philly"; and it cites cheesesteaks and funnelcakes as examples of fine local cuisine. "Oh, what a snob you are! Cheesesteaks are delicious!" you cry, Unknown Reader. "Yes, I am," I dejectedly admit. "But cheesesteaks are not real food, nonetheless."

I think I shall end here for today. I am still new at this, and my blog is severely unadorned. I have been clicking all over, trying to find how to make it a little prettier, but am having no success. I think I'll take a tutorial or two before I write a second entry.