The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters with the Human Race (35 page)

But other people mostly aren’t around. In which case, I mostly do not do them.

The byproduct of this ongoing neglect has been an
ankle like a baby: feeble and incompetent. It hurts a lot. I limp a lot. I know there are worse problems out there, and I know that a good thing to do, probably, would be to think about those problems, to remember how lucky I am.

But that is not my way.

I am not designed to push myself nor to focus on the positive. This is maybe self-indulgent. Or it is maybe realistic. It is maybe life examined, then stripped of self-denial, of the inauthentic lesson learned. It is maybe both. It is hard to tell. What is not, though—what is painfully clear—is how much I like to wallow. And this, to be sure, is a different thing from being
left
to wallow. That I do not care for. I like to know I’m being overheard.

It takes a village to raise a child. More to the point, it takes a village to assist me in the wonderful and tortuous project of writing a book. Thanks are due to each of the following people:

My agent, Elisabeth Weed, whose guidance and overall loveliness have made of me a published author.

Everyone at Three Rivers Press for their patience and support, most especially my editor, Alexis Washam, who is sharp and thorough beyond description.

Each and every one of my students. They’ve worked together over the years to give me a reason to leave my apartment. Not only that, they’ve used their questions and insights to force me into my own improved understanding of this ridiculous business of writing.

My friend and early reader, Diana Spechler, who is profoundly intelligent when it comes to people and to writing, and who has made me (as a person and a writer) a little better than before.

My friend Michelle Newman, upon whose couch I’ve edited a portion of this manuscript, and who says—without fail, and
every
time I see her—“Tell me about the book. I know you think it’s boring, but
I
don’t think it’s boring.”

My friend Maggie McBrien, without whom I’d be short on material. I’d also be terribly lonely.

My friend Joseph Zvejnieks, from whom I’ve stolen more than one story because, well, no one else’s are as funny. This is true about the man, and it is true about his stories.

My brother, Sam Barron, who does me the favor of allowing me to write about him. He does this despite the fact that I convey 1/100th of his massive brain and overall charisma.

My father, Joseph Barron, who—at the age of sixty-five and across the span of four months—had to care for me as though I were a toddler. It was during those months that I began the process of writing this book. Without him there—without the sense that I was not alone—I would not have had the energy to do so.

My mother, Lynn Barron, who in real life would never speak about another person as though that person were an enema. To her I owe every part of me that is—for however brief a moment—in any way funny or kind.

My husband, Geoff Lloyd, whose talent inspires, whose nimble mind and unparalleled sense of humor serve as my beacons in the night: What a gift to trust your taste. What a gift to have at my disposal a brain as big as yours. This book, Geoff, is for you.

Sara Barron is the author of
People Are Unappealing, Even Me
. She hosts the Moth in New York City, and her work has appeared in
Vanity Fair
and on NPR, NBC, and
This American Life
.

PEOPLE ARE UNAPPEALING*
*EVEN ME

The strange, funny, and sometimes filthy stories of Sara Barron’s twisted suburban upbringing and deranged attempt at taking the Big Apple by storm—first as an actor (then a waiter), then a dancer (then a waiter), then a comic (then a waiter). It’s there that she meets the ex-boyfriend turned street clown. The silk pajama–clad poet. The OCD Xanax addict who refuses to have sex wearing any fewer than three condoms. Barron has a knack for attracting the unattractive.
People Are Unappealing
is her wickedly funny look at the dark side of humanity.

THREE RIVERS PRESS • NEW YORK
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