So here's what I want for Christmas:
1 - 12 hours to act the fool (like I did before the Nibblet)
2 - the Pessimist Mug
3 - the body I had when I was 26 years old
4 - did I say 12 hours, let's make it 18 hours
5 - the friends/friendships I had a year ago
6 - a digital projector
7 - a bit of wall to project on
8 - a new tattoo
9 - 3 extra hours every day
10 - did I say 18 hours?
11 - the ability to stop time, and/or a small wallet with limitless supplies of cash
12 - a better . . . shite, that thing that you can use to think of things, um, to remind yourself about that thing that happened . . . um, you use it to remember things . . . damn
10 November 2008
09 November 2008
My NY Times Modern Love
I spent the first twenty-five years of my life avoiding love. Sometimes it was conscious, but most of the time I just didn’t put that much care into my family, my friends, my relationships. I found that there was an advantage to not being heartbroken. My friends poured their woes and aches onto my sturdy unencumbered shoulders, and I was proud to be the logical, clear-minded one. I didn’t understand those “true love” and “end-of-the-world” romances that swept away my friends, removing them, for a time, from my social circles and long nights of freedom.
I spent very little time in relationships, usually ending them when they got complicated or involved making decisions based on what someone else wanted. The few relationships that involved what I simplified into “love” were really more about fitting into the world my friends lived, dating boys who were friends with my friends lovers or significant others. Even losing my virginity involved more planning than emotion, and once the deed was done, well, so was the relationship.
I moved, sometimes across the country, to dissolve complicated arrangements, or to simply avoid the face in the mirror that did not respond to the emotional needs of anyone but itself. It was a selfish existence that did not tax or demand much. Any disasters could be shrugged off after a week of self-pity, or a quick pick-me-up at the local hang-out. I saw the truth about love in the teary faces of my friends and family, as they struggled with loss and dejection. “Why do they do that to themselves?” I often asked myself, being the only one I knew who understood that love was a recipe for heartbreak and sadness. Relationships were futile arrangements between two people who started off just having fun but quickly devolved into demands for time, attention, devotion.
Then I started dating a guy that, seemingly without effort, changed all that. Granted, we were introduced by someone I deeply admired and respected, who could verbally slap me around just as he physically taught his kung-fu students to block and attack. But the guy I was dating was, in my mind, just a boy. Someone to have fun with and go on adventures with and basically treat as I’d treated every boy before. His attitude towards life was the opposite of mine, he lived every moment as if nothing else mattered. There was no planning, no thought about tomorrow, no worries, and certainly no commitment. For eight months we dated, his life not altering much other than to call occasionally, mine to become more and more about what he thought, what he wanted, how to make him want me more. The attraction changed from physical to mental, and I suddenly had no defenses, and worse, no road map.
We broke up after a year. I convinced myself that, once again, I was the wronged party, and therefore had no further responsibilities and that I could sink into self-pity and destructive behavior. We met to have that final breakup conversation, the closure, the “we’ll stay friends” talk that is full of lies. But he refused to play his appointed role, instead telling me that he recognized his faults, that he loved me, and drawing me a picture of that love and what it meant. I sat there, in the late winter sun, reeling from the sudden awareness that, yes Virginia, there is love out there, and it is calling your name. My name was being brought to that table of weakness, fear of rejection, and caring about someone more than myself. This time I embraced it.
Of course it didn’t last. Within weeks we were repeating the same shallow arguments, missed connections, and repeatedly hitting the wall of how different we were.
Even my girlfriends who’d benefited for years from my heart built on rock gave up on me. They recognized all the signs but could not convince me that love had stolen in, made a home, and then burned it down, all inside my iron-clad heart. We broke up again, and I, finally feeling that dreaded wrung-out feeling, that emotional scouring, debased myself in front of all, begging for another chance, crying uncontrollably, getting drunk and maudlin, missing work, refusing all comfort, compassion, and logic.
As most people know, it was awful. It took me years to get over, and on dark, cold nights, I know that I am not over it. The heartbreak that I refused to have had happened, and I could no longer pretend to be better than anyone else. I was feeling that despair that reverberates throughout the body, mostly echoed in every beat of my bruised heart, that came to me every night in my bed, and that woke with me in the morning and accompanied me through every action.
Time heals all, they say, and four years went by. I moved on, as they also say, and finally there was that reunion where we awkwardly chatted and pretended we were soooo much better than before. At least I did. From that meeting we started a conversation, finding that we actually had things to talk about. Our relationship in the past was physical, and then destructively needy, but now we could do the normal friend things, like talk about music, movies, dreams, and goals. Amazingly, and frighteningly, I found that I liked this new man better than I had ever l-o-v-e-d the boy. There was closure and healing in our new relationship, and I was more than willing to take that into my heart. Finally, I thought, I can move beyond that “first love” and now go out and find my “true love”.
The universe has a sick sense of humor, is all I can say. When my new friend came back east to visit we went out with mutual friends, played pool, drank some beers, and had lots of laughs. At the end of the night, he came home with me. I did it because the physical attraction was still there, I liked this person, and because I needed to prove to myself that we could be friends now, without the past. Spare me the snorts of derision. Because, of course, despite precaution, I got pregnant.
Our kung-fu teacher, the one that introduced us, had told me that this world offers you the best and the worst. What you choose is how the world decides what to offer you next. Profound, in a “what-are-you-talking-about” way. When I called my friend with the news that, um, “remember when you spent the night?” and the associated decisions that needed to be made, he was not the guy I had once dated, but my friend, truly and with all his heart. Together we talked over options, and what were not options. With maturity and affection, he left his easy and uncomplicated life, and together we started a difficult and constantly changing one.
It’s been almost two years now. We have the most beautiful, and terrifyingly intelligent, daughter, and we have a love that struggles and grows. What it will ultimately become, well, who knows? I know, now and for the remainder of my life, that I was fortunate in love. As much as it hurt to lose the first flush, I’ve got a concentrated understanding of what it means, what it takes, and what it’s worth. And, I’ve got the man who not only woke up my heart, but gave me the chance to use it.
I spent very little time in relationships, usually ending them when they got complicated or involved making decisions based on what someone else wanted. The few relationships that involved what I simplified into “love” were really more about fitting into the world my friends lived, dating boys who were friends with my friends lovers or significant others. Even losing my virginity involved more planning than emotion, and once the deed was done, well, so was the relationship.
I moved, sometimes across the country, to dissolve complicated arrangements, or to simply avoid the face in the mirror that did not respond to the emotional needs of anyone but itself. It was a selfish existence that did not tax or demand much. Any disasters could be shrugged off after a week of self-pity, or a quick pick-me-up at the local hang-out. I saw the truth about love in the teary faces of my friends and family, as they struggled with loss and dejection. “Why do they do that to themselves?” I often asked myself, being the only one I knew who understood that love was a recipe for heartbreak and sadness. Relationships were futile arrangements between two people who started off just having fun but quickly devolved into demands for time, attention, devotion.
Then I started dating a guy that, seemingly without effort, changed all that. Granted, we were introduced by someone I deeply admired and respected, who could verbally slap me around just as he physically taught his kung-fu students to block and attack. But the guy I was dating was, in my mind, just a boy. Someone to have fun with and go on adventures with and basically treat as I’d treated every boy before. His attitude towards life was the opposite of mine, he lived every moment as if nothing else mattered. There was no planning, no thought about tomorrow, no worries, and certainly no commitment. For eight months we dated, his life not altering much other than to call occasionally, mine to become more and more about what he thought, what he wanted, how to make him want me more. The attraction changed from physical to mental, and I suddenly had no defenses, and worse, no road map.
We broke up after a year. I convinced myself that, once again, I was the wronged party, and therefore had no further responsibilities and that I could sink into self-pity and destructive behavior. We met to have that final breakup conversation, the closure, the “we’ll stay friends” talk that is full of lies. But he refused to play his appointed role, instead telling me that he recognized his faults, that he loved me, and drawing me a picture of that love and what it meant. I sat there, in the late winter sun, reeling from the sudden awareness that, yes Virginia, there is love out there, and it is calling your name. My name was being brought to that table of weakness, fear of rejection, and caring about someone more than myself. This time I embraced it.
Of course it didn’t last. Within weeks we were repeating the same shallow arguments, missed connections, and repeatedly hitting the wall of how different we were.
Even my girlfriends who’d benefited for years from my heart built on rock gave up on me. They recognized all the signs but could not convince me that love had stolen in, made a home, and then burned it down, all inside my iron-clad heart. We broke up again, and I, finally feeling that dreaded wrung-out feeling, that emotional scouring, debased myself in front of all, begging for another chance, crying uncontrollably, getting drunk and maudlin, missing work, refusing all comfort, compassion, and logic.
As most people know, it was awful. It took me years to get over, and on dark, cold nights, I know that I am not over it. The heartbreak that I refused to have had happened, and I could no longer pretend to be better than anyone else. I was feeling that despair that reverberates throughout the body, mostly echoed in every beat of my bruised heart, that came to me every night in my bed, and that woke with me in the morning and accompanied me through every action.
Time heals all, they say, and four years went by. I moved on, as they also say, and finally there was that reunion where we awkwardly chatted and pretended we were soooo much better than before. At least I did. From that meeting we started a conversation, finding that we actually had things to talk about. Our relationship in the past was physical, and then destructively needy, but now we could do the normal friend things, like talk about music, movies, dreams, and goals. Amazingly, and frighteningly, I found that I liked this new man better than I had ever l-o-v-e-d the boy. There was closure and healing in our new relationship, and I was more than willing to take that into my heart. Finally, I thought, I can move beyond that “first love” and now go out and find my “true love”.
The universe has a sick sense of humor, is all I can say. When my new friend came back east to visit we went out with mutual friends, played pool, drank some beers, and had lots of laughs. At the end of the night, he came home with me. I did it because the physical attraction was still there, I liked this person, and because I needed to prove to myself that we could be friends now, without the past. Spare me the snorts of derision. Because, of course, despite precaution, I got pregnant.
Our kung-fu teacher, the one that introduced us, had told me that this world offers you the best and the worst. What you choose is how the world decides what to offer you next. Profound, in a “what-are-you-talking-about” way. When I called my friend with the news that, um, “remember when you spent the night?” and the associated decisions that needed to be made, he was not the guy I had once dated, but my friend, truly and with all his heart. Together we talked over options, and what were not options. With maturity and affection, he left his easy and uncomplicated life, and together we started a difficult and constantly changing one.
It’s been almost two years now. We have the most beautiful, and terrifyingly intelligent, daughter, and we have a love that struggles and grows. What it will ultimately become, well, who knows? I know, now and for the remainder of my life, that I was fortunate in love. As much as it hurt to lose the first flush, I’ve got a concentrated understanding of what it means, what it takes, and what it’s worth. And, I’ve got the man who not only woke up my heart, but gave me the chance to use it.
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