Last summer, a month or so after I started working on the Hill, a colleague and I took an extended lunch and went to the big Campus Progress shindy at the Hyatt.   After a speech by Keith Ellison, the congressman who caused all the “controversy” when he wanted to be sworn in using a Koran (confused by some conservatives with Mein Kampf, apparently), we took in a few breakout sessions.

One of the sessions was led by the completely adorable fellow Hoya (and fellow Michiganian) Rob Anderson, then a Washington Post blogger and now a blogger for Campus Progress.

I haven’t done much blog reading (aside from the pure heroin masquerading as Perez Hilton) unrelated to class since spring semester started.  Catching up during my end-of-semester, pre-summer jobbing stretch of laziness, I came across Rob’s link to an Atlantic article titled “Caring for your Introvert.”

The article is written in a humorous tone, but it also struck a chord personally.  I can’t count the number of times since moving to DC I’ve been called a party-pooper because I didn’t want to spend yet another weekend in a series of hot, crowded, overpriced clubs, struggling to banter with strangers over awful house music.  Or how many times I’ve been called a desperate housewife because I live in Virginia rather than Dupont.

Maybe it’s just the metropolitan environment that convinces everyone they need to be seen and heard by as many people as possible in as many venues that can be fit into one night.  But even in “Sex and the City” reruns (I can think of no better reference) the girls seem to have so much more fun lunching at that little cafe or gathered around a TV with some biscotti in one of their apartments than they do when they force their way into the latest hot-spot (or that time Carrie made them all go to Atlantic City).

I dunno.  Perhaps I’m just a buzz-killing house-frau, boring beyond my years.  But I’m OK watching a movie with some close friends and a bunch of Chinese carry-out.  I don’t mind living across the river if I can park my car for less than the car itself would cost per month.  “Calvin and Hobbes” and Camus share space on my bookshelf.  Britney comes just after Beethoven on my MP3 player.  I once won a bike guessing how much a giant pumpkin weighed and have a scar on my abdomen from where I subsequently impaled myself upon that bike’s handlebar attempting to jump a curb.  I hold my pen incorrectly.  That makes me mildly interesting, doesn’t it?

I just think my words have more meaning when they address something or someone I have an actual fondness for and when they don’t pour forth as dialgoue in some “production” of life.  I think my actions carry more weight when I take them out of genuine desire and not to live up to someone else’s definition of amusement or fulfillment.

Being so “old,” I long for the days when MTV actually had something to do with music.  I guess I just don’t aspire to carry on as though I’m a Hills cast member.  Which is good, because if I had to date Spencer or Heidi I would kill myself.