I’m terribly nosey.
When I’m eighty, I will be permanently pressed up against my front window, binnoculars in hand, watching the world go by. I don’t nose around things to be gossipy or even intrusive, I’m just really,
I’m interested in how other people’s lives work, how they fill their days with the people they love, what the inside of their houses look like…
..I’m starting to sound creepy now right?
My most favourite posts of those bloggers I religiously follow have always been the unveiling of their private life; when they invite you into their beauty kit or living room or wardrobe.
House tours are my pan-ultimate, busy-body favourite.
I want to see how you stack your books, what kind of bed you have and what colour scheme you went for in your living room.
Please. Send me pictures. I’m genuinely curious.
I’m not really sure where this curiosity stems from. Is my own life so dull that I need to imagine (and even enjoy imagining) the worlds of other people? Am I just a day-dreamer? A silly heart? A really imaginative…imagine-y…person? Perhaps it’s just my way of making a connection with the people around me. Yes, I know, I could and should just go up and say hello, but this is London people…eye contact on the tube is a sin.
Isn’t that what we all want? Connection? To be apart of something, to be loved and seen and valued?
In spite of my rabid curiosity about people and their lives, I don’t tend to make friends particularly easily. Old echoes of nasty school girls have in the past kept a very solid, polite, but impersonal wall up between me and new people that I have met. But now, I have no choice. I have to take down that wall, create that connection, brick by well loved, protective, isolated, brick.
In my constant quest to be wholehearted, connection has become paramount to my journey here. I have felt the drive to make friends, become interested in other people’s lives, find someone who doesn’t tsk every time I want to dance around my living room to Taylor Swift (husband, I’m looking at you).
Because, what is life, without people to care about, who also
Who don’t mind that you walk slowly past people’s open windows so you can see what their curtains are like.
Who giggle when some stranger on the Tube gives you a nasty look because you’ve been staring at their shoes for the last five minutes wondering where they got them from.
My husband likes stories (which is funny really, because when I ask him to tell me a story, he’s got nothing). I’ve screwed up my face more than a few times when he’s told me that he likes watching certainl reality TV shows, like survivor, because ‘they have great characters’ (to which I say, ‘they’re real people, darling’). No form of entertainment is safe – he loves to go on about ‘character development issues’ in movies we’ve seen and books we’ve read together and to be honest, I mostly tune out. But you know, he has a point. At the end of the day, the things we connect with are people. Whether they’re in books, or movies, or TV shows, or hey, real life, connection is what makes life better. On the most basic level, being seen, being understood, feeling something, gives us joy, gives us validity.
People are what make life beautiful.
Even the nosey ones.