The Illusion of Perfection, part 1
I knew a couple once, in what was like another lifetime, that seemed like this absolutely RomCom reality. They were like perpetual honeymooners. It wasn’t just that they never fought, it was that they clearly, outwardly (and in every way) adored each other all the time. All.The.Time. It was as if they had somehow managed to capture that first week/month/(or so) thrill of infatuation and live within it.
It reminded me of a Disney movie.
Umm. She was asleep. Yeah, I know…
I spent quite a bit of time with this couple, and I will not say when or in what capacity because in this case confidentiality is really important, but the more important thing is to know how much I idealized these two. He was older and she was his second (younger) wife. And they fawned over each other, and they were ever considerate, he in the way the foppish guy in the RomCom always is, eliciting groans from the male audience, and ‘awwwww,’ from the girls. Even tough girls do it so don’t front. She was sometimes silly in that reborn nerd girl kind of way, and he always played the straight man, ever patient, never getting ruffled. They seemed to be a Perfect Couple.
The person I was with when I first met them had no time for them. He was not impressed at all. My next partner during this time – not always the sharpest tool in the shed – always said he thought something was off. [Sometimes those well-used tools shine bright.] My mom said the same thing of them, not that it was an act exactly , but that it certainly seemed to exact effort. Eventually, I knew their secrets. All of them. Well, all of hers, and the ones he had shared with her. I imagine with the number of secrets she had that he would never know, he must have had some doozies that she did not know. They were the kind of secrets that, even in a soap opera, would elicit incredulity. It was clichéd dirty laundry of the worst sort. And even when she told all my secrets, I never told hers because I knew that he would leave her if he found them out. Absolutely. As far as I know they are still together, but she must go to bed every night knowing the secrets she cannot tell. I think now that this is what contributes to her manic adoration. But I don’t really know. Anyhow, that was the Perfect Couple I knew.
I found myself thinking of this perfect couple not too long ago. The Neo-Honeymooners. I was living in that heady, intense, early onset adoration that develops – if you are lucky – in the initial stages of a relationship. While I was giddily (is that a word?) soaking it all up, I was amazed that it appeared I had stumbled upon that magic elixir of perpetual infatuation. This would never end! Huzzah! I win!
I forgot for a minute that every magic elixir I know of knocks you out and leaves you with a whopping hangover at best, or maybe just puts you into some comatose state of delusion [see exhibit Sleeping Beauty, above.]
And so when the moment came when I had to see this person as a real human and not some Disney character, I had to pause. Had I failed? Was I doomed to a perpetual cycle of up and down romance always culminating in some sort of dramatic downward spiral? Those were my first thoughts. Definitely. But then, I sat with myself and looked at those ideas more closely. It dawned on me that as reality emerged through the foggy illusion of [let's face it, one-dimensional] perfection, it was probably happening for him too in regard to me. And he did not seem all that troubled by it. When I fretted about my own reality poking through the rainbow haze, he didn’t do anything, he just stayed right there.
And that is something.
This whole living in reality thing seems very adult. And there are parts of it that also seem really uninspired. But, I do not go to bed harboring secrets. And I know that he is not bothered by the fact that I did not put away the clean laundry, or that everyday is not like a RomCom holiday. We are humans and [mostly] doing the best we can for each other all the time. I guess that means we really like each other. A lot.
Then I though about another “Perfect Couple” I know. And another. And another. What has made them all perfect is how they embrace the imperfections. [Or, at least manage them and deal with them...] I know this is not always easy. Or fun. But that is the magic of the real Honeymooners: One of these days, POW! Right in the kisser…!
The Kramden’s knew what a real honeymoon was.
I have – I’ve got an explanation. A perfect one. I’m a dope. Not a run-of-the-mill dope, the world’s champ. For years I’ve been taking for granted the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me – you. I’ve never shown you the appreciation you deserve, Alice. You could walk outta that door right now and I wouldn’t blame you. You deserve something better than me. There are a million guys who’d give you anything if they could have a girl like you.
Ralph, I don’t want a million. There’s just one guy I want: you.
Baby, you’re the greatest.
Rule #1: Be sure you are not placed on the end of any group photo.
My parents recently moved back to the area. Apparently the true 1%ers they have spent a lifetime trying not to be, they are now going to be snowbirds, (of a sort, still choosing rather atypical resting points.) As this move was getting closer everyone was asking me about it: Was I excited? Did I want to be closer to them? Was it going to be ‘too close’? I never really thought much about my answers. Of course I was glad, I have not lived within a reasonable driving distance of my parents since 1988 – at which point we were still living together. And after more than five years of a minimum of 18 hours of travel time to see them, I have been looking forward to easier parental access. Haven’t I?
Plus, if you know my parents, they are kind of The Shit.
Anyhow, along come the holidays… always an ass-kicking time at work and the days don’t just seem shorter because of the dark, I am convinced they really are shorter. Add to that, the family equation and life just gets busy. But it’s cool you know.
It makes for good material.
Unfortunately mom has taken to proclaiming that I am not allowed to write about certain things. Like my family. I can’t always tell which family things will get the kibosh and which will be okay, it seems kind of random. Okay, that is not entirely true, but I have to say I was getting seriously censored for a while. But, the way I am looking at it, their locality puts them back on the front page. I was willing to let slide many an opportune tale while they were up North, but now their mountain hiatus has come to an end.
So.
I will make little mention of the navigational skill of the Ways-ie App, or my step-dad’s triple-protected new-new iPhone. I’m going to jump right into my Bridget Jones montage. [The Back to Future remake will be for a later installment.]
That pretty much sums it up. For the second time in two weeks, I was completely mal-attired and borrowing clothes in order to not be simply ridiculous – though as my aunt says, at least I did not show up in a bunny costume.
But barely. Visualize, if you will, my arrival: Jeans (7 for All Mankind, but still: JEANS) and motorcycle boots. And a cute black t-shirt. And I walk in and see my grandma all dressed up. For high tea in honor of her birthday with all of the ladies.
There were petit fours on the table for goodness sake.
I thought it was weird that my uncle wondered why I wasnt carrying anything with me when he picked me up at the train station. And my aunt asked me if I needed to hang anything up. I definitely did not get the memo. Suffice it to say that one more day would be spent in a state of awkward dress. [The irony that I spent years cultivating awkward style for family events is not lost on me. A particular outfit of blue and black plaid pants, blue suede boots, a fuchsia over-sized button down shirt over long-sleeved thermals and a fedora comes to mind.]
Back to now, the afternoon moved along into the evening… everyone else was dressed totally appropriately, not that I want to harp on this, or anything, but any thoughts that my Bridget moments were finished would be incorrect.
“So, do you have a love in your life?” I was asked.
“Umm, no, not at the moment.”
“Oh, the last time we saw each other I think you were with someone.”
“Yes, yes I was.” I say. [I want to say, 'Yes, #3. He was the one who went to jail and led to Rule #1. What is Rule #1? See that picture over there? You see how it looks like I have a hand growing out of my abdomen? Yes, that is the effect of Rule #1: never find yourself on the end of any group photo. Excising (or exorcising) of anyone is made far too easy if you are on the end. That is what happened to #3. And you should see us jockey for position in the group photos these days.']
I don’t say that.
“That can’t be the granddaughter?”
“Oh, no, this is A, not K…”
“Ahh, I see I knew it hadn’t been that long!”
In discussing my work with a really amazing couple they tell me they are in a Current Events Group, and that it is really fun “because everyone is a [whispers] Democrat.” I smile and explain that if it were not that way, “group” might not be the correct noun. “We probably shouldn’t talk about politics,” she whispers, shh-ing me.
Sitting down to eat, my step-dad and I get to talking. Somehow my (lack of a) love life comes up again. I am not bothered by this conversation, I know the discussion comes from a place of concern… or maybe that is the wrong word, but I am sure my parents just want for me what they’ve got. And truth be told, what they’ve got is awesome. But, still… I don’t really know why I why I don’t meet many people and etcetera and etcetera. [Not totally true: I don't meet people because I work all the time and because most people my age [who are not categorically dysfunctional or insane] are happily married to rad people, or gay.]
By the end of the evening, my clothes faux pas (and my neglect in remembering to bring my camera), my obvious singleness, and my concern over mom being angsty about all of the above had faded. Partaking in a marathon goodbye (the length of the goodbye seems directly proportional to proximity) none of it seemed to matter. I was getting a ride home from my parents and the weekend was still young. I made a call to see about going out.
Maybe some things really are meant to stay the same.
Just be sure to get to the middle when the group photos commence.
Coffee: DENIED!!
Last week I went back to my hometown for a Halloween party. I even wore a costume and everything. I don’t go up there very often, and every time that I do go… I am glad. Thought I was going to say I regret it, huh? Nope. Anyhow, R and I got to the party fashionably late and in high style. Who knew that this evening would lead to my latest WTF moment…
One of the things that I enjoy about going to the hometown is that all of the pressure of socializing with an agenda is out the window. I have long abandoned the idea that this particular little slice of heaven would bring forth a guy I would want to date… or would want to date me for that matter – let’s not forget I did more than a decade of hard time there, so I have some context for this attitude. Plus, when I am there I am generally flanked by R so I have a nice comfortable landing spot, and exit strategy. This shindig was no exception to my previously established assumptions. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise to make contact with someone (new) who seemed pretty interesting, and who has an incredible back story as well. Suffice it to say I was intrigued enough that it made the next morning’s brunch conversation agenda.
Over the course of several hours of brunch Dr. T and R and I talked about the changing social dynamic we are facing these days re: meeting people, and of course the inherent distinction between his, and ours. Facts being what they are, it is a lot easier to be a dude of our – shall we say, station – or just be honest and say age? It reminded me of this sentiment from an article about all the Single Ladies:
I realized that I too have always just assumed that the whole “love” thing would just work itself out. It turns out that is a bit naive, and by the way, don’t read that article if you are still in that frame of mind: total spoiler. So, we contemplated, what was the best course of action to take in navigating these waters, (which seem like they should get smoother with maturity – not more fucking rocky)? We could all speak to different strategies coupled with equally diverse (and though often humorous, still disappointing) outcomes.
Should one “get out there” and try to make things happen even if it’s not what you were naturally inclined to do? Should you use places in your comfort zone as a “hunting ground”? Internet dating? The fact of it is, all of it made me want to barf in my cappuccino. I have always said that if I wasn’t going to meet someone doing what I normally do, and in the course of my normal life, then I wasn’t going to meet the right person. I still believe that, but the reality of that scenario is that I work pretty much around the clock during the school year, using my free time for yoga and the gym… and then I want to travel when I am not working. This is not conducive to being a successful dater (which we have long-established I have no idea how to do anyhow.) Not to mention, I don’t even know what i am looking for. This particular line of rhetoric was precipitated by my admission that I do not go out on Friday night. “I am just too tired,” I told Dr. T. “But it seems like you are always doing stuff… totally energetic,” she replied. “You can’t trust Facebook,” I reminded her.
And here it is, Friday night and I am home. Exhausted. Not at all unhappy, but completely aware that my staying in perpetuates the reality that I will continue to reduce the odds of meeting someone new and interesting or at least the bearer of interesting potential.
So, maybe it was not too crazy to consider someone I met in my hometown. Shit, I have certainly considered far more suspect possibilities in places far afield.
Information was acquired (from both sides of the equation, I might add) and contact was made. “Let’s get together for coffee or something…” “That would be great, we should have some free time coming up with the holidays…” “By the way, I thought you were gorgeous.”
Aaawwwwww.
And then the Facebook connection was established. I looked at his profile. I saw some things that made me go “Hmmmmmm….” [You went to Pahrump? On purpose? FOR.FIREARMS TRAINING????] But, in my typical optimistic fashion (don’t laugh I am an optimist, but of course only in the most ridiculous circumstances) I overlooked these few things. After all, had I not just spent hours talking with my best friends about how (c’est la vie said the old folks, it goes to show… ) you never can tell? Plus, you can’t trust Facebook.
Plans were made. Life went on. Two days later I got this message:
Listen, why don’t we hold off getting together for that drink. After checking out your fb stuff I realized that you and I are polar opposite on our politics. Friendship sounds a hell of a lot better at this point.
Of course, being the headcase that I can sometimes be, my first reaction was to go back and look at my Facebook page. Umm… What? I couldn’t even figure out how it was “political.” Save for the poster from my union that one of my amazing coworkers made for us to carry at the General Strike standing behind Occupy Oakland… oh, hm. Perhaps that is political. But, as a historian, I would certainly NOT miss an event like that! And as a teacher (he is one too) who in the world could be anti-union? I looked further. I had a Howard Zinn quote. Okay, maybe I am a little political. I considered all of this in a new light. But cancelling a coffee date? I shook my head. Does the guy know anything about me? Well, he is related to people I have known since I was six. He knows where I grew up, not a traditionally conservative bastion – though these days, sheesh. Everything else he gleaned from… from… Facebook?
I looked at all the stuff on my Facebook. Things I have selected to share with a very wide variety of people and re-reconsidered. It may be political. It may ideological. Hell, it may be psychological. But mostly, in my opinion, it is there to be intellectual – and I don’t mean all smarty pants, but I mean to engender thought, or perspective. Yeah, even argument. Some of the people I respect most in my life are the ones who really come at me from a different angle and are not afraid. [That would be you, Mr. Fox Island.] But in the end I went back to the same old place:
“Seriously. Am I not cute enough to override the red flags??? Do you know how many guys I have gone out with in spite of the plethora of screaming scarlet banners??????”
Ooohhhh…
Wait a minute…
…perhaps Mr. Freinship-sounds-a-hell-of-a-lot-better-at-this-point is on to something here…
Of cows, rules and realities.
I have been so busy lately. People who know me would know this by my absence in several areas where I usually have a greater presence. I have not been writing much. Or at least I have not been finishing anything I start writing – and when this happens I tend to get really mentally muddled. All this shit bouncing around my brain, leading me to feel more overwhelmed and then more busy…
For the most part has been a good busy, like work stuff, which I like, and people stuff, which I like (more on that presently.) I have also decided that I am going to try to go to the gym every day this month – sort of like a challenge to myself, and I don’t really like or dislike this. Though I have to say I am enjoying the fact that for the first time – probably ever – I am not going to the gym because I feel physically repugnant, but because I am trying to do something to make my knee situation better. It is nice to be freed up of the more superficial elements about going to the gym. Though, truth be told, I would feel like a giant cow if I were still in Hong Kong. Fortunately – in America I feel really thin – so, there you have the benefit of perspective, I suppose.
Speaking of cows, one of the things that has been leading to my busy-ness is a significant amount of mental energy going towards an unexpected focal point. I have been spending time (in hindsight not that much time, but that it seems like a lot is interesting) with a person who I enjoy allowing to take up my time. [This person is wicked smart and frequently a total ass (not usually to me - though that I am not above reproach is also very cool.) So, clearly I think they're completely great.] But I am unsure if this is a good decision on my part or if I am making something out of nothing. Like, is this person just keeping me “on the hook“? Or is there something more to it? In discussing this with both T, now Dr. T to us regular folk, and R, the answers were the same, “Well, why would a guy buy a cow when he gets the milk for free…?” I am not really interested in being bovine. Or purchased for that matter. But their point is clear. The only way to find out the answer the questions I have would be to withhold the milk. [Have I mentioned I am lactose intolerant?]
I would almost just rather pass the person a note via a third-party and be like, “Do you like me? ____ Yes ____ No”
I am annoyed that there have to be rules to stuff like this. But it appears, from all angles that there are. I tried to justify the decisions I had made: I know the person fairly well. There have been “signs” that suggest certain things. The nervousness. Who called who. Who did what, when, where.
Whatever.
The reality is that people are messy and honesty is like using a bad paper towel to clean up a big old pile of reality. It makes it worse first. Telling someone how you feel is risky and difficult. And judging from my personal tastes, it is also a pretty direct route to awkward. I tend to not talk about these kinds of things. To anyone really. Let alone the specific people to whom I should be speaking. [My grandma apparently said about me as a young child, "A will share about anything that doesn't matter." Or something along those lines.]
The further reality is that I have never been made to feel so nervous around someone before, and this nervousness makes me feel like a total jackass and likely act like one too. Thus perpetuating the cycle wherein the rules become tedious and the realities become obfuscated.
Moooooooooo.
Sitcom Wisdom.
I don’t watch much TV. I have it on more than normal lately, but I am still not watching much of it; even in a totally compromised mental state I find most of it really tedious, I’d rather just look out the window.
In the midst of my spaced out staring the other day I flipped past a sitcom called “How I Met Your Mother.” I have never watched this program, but I saw Doogie Howser on it and so I stopped for a minute. These people were talking about being “on the hook” and how everyone has been both the hook-ee, and hooker. For lack of better terms. The episode is summarized thusly:
When a beautiful young woman “hooks” Ted (keeping Ted in reserve as backup while she pursues her own dream boyfriend), the gang discusses their own experiences both as the one who “hooks” and the one on the hook.
Huh.
On the hook. It got me thinking. Am I on the hook? Am I keeping anyone on the hook? And since being “off the hook” is cool, what does it all even mean?
It is certainly on my mind whether or not it’s on the hook. Or, in general, off the hook.
Pay it forward.
Storage units are funny things. I mean, not really funny like haha. Funny like they are metaphors for a lot of shit. I actually hate storage units. I mean, the idea that we have too much stuff to keep it with us, in our daily rotation is really pretty absurd. George Carlin sort of nailed it way back when.
But aside from the obvious point that storage units clearly demonstrate that we have far too much stuff and are wasteful and greedy and driven by consumption, they are also our ball and chain, our scarlet letter, our mark of Cain, our niggling memory, our constant reminder of what we were, what we wanted to be, what we could have been, what we started, what we didn’t understand, what we wanted to forget… but in spite of it all, what we could not let go.
Add to all of this philosophical speculation that since I was old enough to acknowledge stuff, I have been almost obsessive about keeping track of it, organizing it, cleaning it, cataloging it, and managing it, and you may get a small glimpse into the insanity that having stuff all over the greater Western US was engendering within me. So, in spite of a ridiculous schedule and an ominous to-do list, I decide to fly up to Reno on Monday to empty out my storage unit.
I was totally ready.
Or, so I thought.
A compromising position.
I was talking to T on the phone this morning as she drove to work. A major benefit of having summers off is increased phonability. Like, for instance, yesterday as I was finishing up the last-minute of “really fun” stairclimbing at the Gym (more on this soon, you can be fucking sure) my phone buzzed with a +44 number. I will never not pick up a +44 because it is going to be either Fun Bobby, RG, J, or the goddamned Queen of England. Obviously I answered. It was not the Queen. But, thanks to modern technology and my inability to be shamed into cell phone silence after five years in Hong Kong, J came along as I finished my workout, got changed, went to Safeway and entertained the checkout lady, walked to the nail place and helped me pick a color. So, this morning as I was finishing up my coffee and contemplating the mysteries of catttitude, I was pleased to see T calling in. I figured she could hang with me while cleaned the cat box, did the dishes, watered the plants and headed to yoga.
I was not disappointed. Among other subjects, in what is always worthy conversation, we began to consider the things that are fundamentally necessary for us in a relationship. More to the point we were looking at deal breakers. Or, maybe those are the same things. It’s hard to tell.
One thing we agreed on was that as we get older, (and I don’t actually mean this as a disparaging comment about aging, but rather a statement about how people change over time and perhaps, if they are lucky they get to know themselves a little better too) we seem to have developed more stringent, umm… let’s call them “standards.” It may be true that some people develop their “standards” with more expedience than T and I have, and I am not going to speak to advantages or disadvantages of efficiency in standards-establishment. However, throughout this conversation it seemed to me that the habit of compromising I had cultivated has done little to help me accurately evaluate any of my relationships.
It got us to the fundamental point of confusion. When does having a standard = being stuck-in-your-ways (rigid, frigid, cold, etc.)? Or, again from the more familiar opposite point of view, when does compromising in a relationship = compromising… yourself? I immediately took to the comfort of list making. What have I determined that I simply will not compromise?
Free to be [fill in the blank].
I have not had a repressive, oppressive or otherwise [externally] limited life. I have been blessed with all of the promises that our Founders put forth in the Declaration of Independence in spades. This has been largely due to three factors: my family, the era (1970s NorCal) into which I was born, and courage [derived primarily from a combination of stubbornness, curiosity and (at least initially) naiveté.]
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
When I consider independence I always end up thinking about freedom. Really, freedom is what I have relished as a person who has never had to actually fight for her independence. While I appreciate autonomy – on both a personal and statutory scale – it is freedom ”the exemption from external control, interference, regulation and the power to determine action without restraint…” that I love.
And I always have.
Round and Around we Rebound: I’m piloting the relationship Swiffer
Throughout my basketball career, my most dominant stats were always rebounding. I had some games where I totally controlled the boards on both sides of the floor. My record for rebounding stood for ten years or so after I graduated. My coach accused me, on more than one occasion, of padding my offensive rebound stats by being such a crap offensive threat on the put back. I can’t tell you if it was intentional but I can certainly tell you I knew how to rebound. This is one of the reasons I always liked Charles Barkley. Anyone who knows anything about basketball knows, the man dominated the boards when he was so inclined. In addition to his general hilarity, bordering on total ridiculousness, and real likelihood to say absolutely anything ["These are my new shoes. They're good shoes. They won't make you rich like me, they won't make you rebound like me, they definitely won't make you handsome like me. They'll only make you have shoes like me. That's it."] Charles always sent the ball home.
I don’t care what people think. people are stupid.
~ Charles Barkley, “The Round Mound of Rebound”
Not that I want to be the Round Mound of anything, but it turns out that rebounding continues to be a particular area of my expertise.
Who knew?
#5 is alive and, well… yeah, alive.
I received an email from #5 yesterday. It was rather out of the blue. I had emailed him in October on the passing of my milestone birthday as we share a sun sign, among many other things (not sicknesses or a fondness for China White, however) so it was a reply to my email – technically – though you would not know as it referenced not one thing in the email I sent. It was like a preprogrammed response. It brought on a sense of dejavu that was erie. Where had I seen this before… oh… yeah….
I was glad to get it because it is nice to know that he is still among the living. When I told C$ about this she raised her eyebrow and I had to reflect on what it says about my relationship choices that the fact that an ex remains alive is considered significant. Yes, well, we all know, my choices are notoriously contentious. At best.
Still, the email caught me off-guard and the subsequent emotional responses I had were very strange. It was certainly distracting, but it was also kind of amazing to see the words he chose in a temporally and spatially detached context. I read it several times. In so doing, I recalled the emails he used to send to his ex-girlfriend when we were together and the interpretations of his then-reality that he would describe to her. I always thought that he was trying to ease her mind of any potential worry she might have for him. How often did I feel like telling him, that after the way they ended their relationship he could rest assured that she was not worried – she was relieved to be free. And to what end did he think the bullshit he proffered up would come? Why tell her he was drug free (as if) or that he had finally gotten his shit together (ibid) and was a changed man (ibid). I remembered feeling mildly superior to her in that I knew the reality and she was getting shit. [In hindsight, I think it is clear who was really getting the shit. Or at least the current load of it.] I recalled how she had a sense of propriety over him, like that he would always love her, as the saying goes, as he told her about me. Why would he do this? In this confessional tone? I remembered watching it all.
And I remembered ignoring all the signs that this kind of behavior was not only cyclical, but cyclical(ly – for Jeanne) bullshit.
True Stor- CENSORED!!
Anonymous, but suggestive of... what?
So, maybe there is some benefit to being anonymous in that you can really write whatever you want – consequences be damned. The downside of anonymity is that you don’t get the legit acknowledgment that you are probably after in the first place (and it seems to me that anonymous attention seekers really have no boundaries in terms of the desperate levels to which they go to for attention, so the theory that all of this is a plea for attention seems substantiated.)
The thing is I love to tell stories, about me about adventures, about whatever. I enjoy this simply for the opportunity to be a rocking raconteur. The other thing is, even if you harbor a rom-com inspired fantasy that you may write something and somehow the one person on the planet who is supposed to read it does, and then somehow you live happily ever after because s/he understood/had an epiphany/realized they had been right (or wrong)/saw the light/determined they could not live without you (or would finally live without you)/offered you a movie-book-tv deal… the reality is that the people who “read” you generally have a personal reason to do so; they found you through a friend or friend of a friend, they are your family or your actual friends, they have a common interest that brought them to you (sorry hot stuff, it was your kitty not your pussy that brought them around…) [Note: I am excluding stalkers here, because those people are not reading your shit anyhow, they are tracking you, which is really different; like I have this ugly group from Akron, OH and San Antonio, TX who are constantly tracking me, as well as a very strange individual from KNX, TN, but it is not because they want to read my blog it is because they are freakishly jealous of my life creeps.]
The way I have conducted my on-line life is as simple as my real life is, which of course is not simple. It is, however, authentic and not some fantastical version of what I might wish my life was. I have chosen to write about real shit that happens to me (sometimes pretty fucking embarrassing shit), real shit that happens to people I know (sometimes pretty unbelievable shit) and real people (sometimes seemingly unreal)… because I am real.
This has led to some interesting consequences and outcomes.
The Retribution Hook Up.
I have been wanting to write about this but then thinking, hmmm…. perhaps it is too much for certain members of my audience. But I am struggling with the notion of censure these days as well as the more basic censor. I am torn. The question of how personal to be – or not to be – begs a degree of serious consideration. But then, at this point, it seems like, what the hell. Scandal sells, and my circus of a dating life could be a NY Times syndication.
So, as Mr. Vonnegut so aptly said, it goes.
When one gets asked out it is hard to not be flattered and I would say this even includes the requests that come from people you would never even consider offering an affirmative. It is nice. It is validating. It makes you feel special, like, selected or something, even if you were already feeling pretty fly about yourself. When I was recently asked out by OMYSFYSFYBMM I was all of the above, though I was certainly not averse to acquiesecing. I was pretty psyched, frankly. And, as the details of the date are not really so salient here, plus I think people have imaginations that might lend more color to the story than my words might, I will just say it was a pleasant set of circumstances all the way around. It was what I would describe as a successful date.
For all of these reasons, you can imagine my surprise to learn, on the second date, that OMYSFYSFYBMM has – not had, but has – a girlfriend.
-Uh…
-Yeah, well, I know. It is kind of weird.
-Umm, weird is not precisely how I would describe this.
-Well, we have been having some problems for the last few months and…
-”Few months”?
-Well, we’ve been together for five years…
-Five years?
-It’s just that, well, I don’t know. She was cheating on me and so we have been sleeping in separate bedrooms…
-You live together?
-Yeah, we bought a house last year. And the thing is, it is kind of complicated…
-You think?
-I just.. well, I don’t know how things are going to go and well, there is a kid…
-You have a kid?
-No. I mean, well she has a kid. And, well, he is 12 and I have been you know, with him since he was like seven and…
-I think the word you are looking for is not the linking verb ‘with’ but rather the active verb ‘raising’.
-Yeah, yeah. That is the thing. And so… Well, really I had sort of made up my mind to try to work it out with her the day that I asked you out and…
-Why did you ask me out?
-The first time I saw you I knew I wanted to get to know you, you were just totally intriguing and -
-’Get to know me’?
-Well, yeah, and -
-But, you are in a relationship.
-Yeah, well, like I said I am not sure-
-You live together with a child.
-I know, it is confusing. But she was seeing some other guy and I, well, I didn’t think you would be so cool and-
-You ‘didn’t think I’d be so cool’?
-I don’t know, I had no idea I would be so interested and -
At this point a million things were going through my mind. On the one hand I felt lucky that he had not confessed that he had AIDS or scabies (under our current circumstances, the latter would be more problematic than the former). On the other hand I was super irritated at the notion that he even thought I might not be ‘so cool.’ Then again, I was glad to know he was not fathering children around the City with reckless abandon and that he seemed to accept responsibility for the one he was “with.” And it was nice to know that someone thought you were hot enough to ask out on the day you had decided to attempt to work it out with your LTR. What the hell?
And then it hit me: “The Retribution Hook Up.”
It made perfect sense. He had been pissed off enough to try to ‘do unto others’ as it were. She cheated. He would cheat. This was new for me. “The Other Woman.” I thought about this label. I did not like it. Making completely fucked relationship choices for my own life has been a full-time occupation, I hardly have the time to be fucking up other people’s shit.
I considered the karma I have undoubtedly piled up with my past relationships and the attendant fall-out. It is substantial to be sure. Could this be a part of it? Maybe. It could also just be my own proclivity towards selecting, from an admittedly wide array, the most likely person to cause me problems in an intimate, interpersonal way. The whole situation stinks. And of course, OMYSFYSFYBMM and I are incredibly compatible in a million ways. I suppose the cheating may be one of those. When he texts or calls, which is always just when I have gotten him off my mind, it takes an iron will to simply ignore. I called in all the girls as my support network. C in HK reminded me in her perfectly succinct way:
Stop feeding that stray cat of a man.
This is a dead-end street with a car coming.
No.
That woman will go apeshit. Do not continue. She will be angry and blame woman not man.
So, now I have the opportunity to do the right thing. Maybe it will reduce a bit of my karmic debt and maybe it won’t. But one thing is for sure right about now:
Ho’s before Bro’s – and if you hooked up with me and *then* you were surprised at how cool I am, you are clearly not paying attention.
Now serving a conlfict of interest: Would you like a glass of #wine with that?
How romantic....
A boy meets a girl on the interwebs. This is not a dating site and so the conversation is not bent towards engendering any sort of intentional relationship, but the boy and the girl enjoy witty banter and savvy political commentary and so they continue to “talk.” Of course they have no idea what their individual voices sound like because they don’t really talk. They Tweet. Or Chat. Or Whatever. The contact becomes regular enough that they each believe they know the other. They are Friends. I wonder what each one imagines the other’s voice sounds like. Do they contemplate the way the other would use their hands to punctuate a particularly salient point, or what they smell like? Out there suspended on the interwebs all of that IRL detail is completely malleable, manifested entirely on the screen of the beholder.
One day the boy is no longer there. In truth the girl doesn’t notice right away because she has been drawn away from this particular interface of the [tangled] Web We Weave. In real life would you notice if one of your daily conversants was suddenly absent? Gone? Dissipated without a trace? I am not sure anymore, but I think, in spite of our increasingly complex cocoons of self-involvement, perhaps.
The girl sends out an electronic search party for her Friend. Email. Tweets. Wall posts. The search party is effective and within an hour the missing person has been found. Where were you? What happened? It was bad. I freaked out. I had to… to… delete my account. Oh. Wow. Why? It got too intense. Oh.
The boy had met another girl. In similar fashion he had begun to connect with his new Friend. Or was it a Follower? It is so hard to tell sometimes. Maybe he was the one who Followed.
Followed where?
Into the rabbit hole. [Lewis Carroll, you had no idea.] One interface makes you bigger. One makes you smaller. That is still true. They were bigger. So big in each other’s eyes. After one month they were in Love. Love is good. I understand how certain conditions lend themselves to the formation of incredibly intense relationships; I have always found that the bonds that are formed among travelers are like this. Intense. Quick. Flashpoints. The union of shared experience.
Shared experience?
As the boy tells his Friend of his Love she is curious but unafraid. This boy has a need she could never fill and she cares for him as a Friend. A Follower. She listens to his lament. It is a tawdry tale to be sure. Full of duplicitous, passive aggressive behavior so easily perpetrated from behind the one-way mirror of the computer screen. He looks for meaning in everything. Everything is a code to be broken. Nothing is as it seems. This is confusing. I am as I seem. Yes, but you are different. Aren’t you as you seem? Yes, but I am different. Why are we different? I don’t know.
It is as if the progress of the relationship has been on hyper-speed. How can you get to the icky parts without the honeymoon parts?
What do you like about her? What does she like about you? Do you know what each other smell like? How you sort your mail? Which way you like the toilet paper on the roll? You have not met.
But you are in love.
Yes.
Oh.
Well, she says to the boy, do we get to be friends again? I have missed you. Yes, yes of course.
Then the whole strange cycle starts again. They are friends. They communicate. There is some expectation of coded meaning, that nothing is as it seems. That people are not being honest. What can we deduce? What can we find out? What do you want to know? Will you feel better to know things you do not want to know? Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course, YES.
Now the boy’s Love is not okay. She cannot allow him to be friends with any other girls out there among the fiber-optic milieu. Why? She says it is because all the other girls are whores who are using him to suit their own agendas. That he is naïve and cannot see that they all want something from him. That they are taking advantage of him.
What she means to say is this:
You cannot be friends with any other girls because if you fell in love with me by communicating this way you can just as easily fall in love with them the same way. It was so easy. So immediate. And it is real. So real. And so all others are a threat because who’s to say that the same thing won’t happen again and be just as real. I must hold on. Or else I will lose. You.
That is what she means to say. But she cannot say that.
The boy, too, has issues. After all this is serious business; he updated his Facebook status to reflect that he was “In A Relationship.” Because he is so desperate for the words his Love Tweets and Chats and Posts to be real, he is compelled to place equal weight on all her typed sentiments – whether they are backed by gravitas or levity. It is a conundrum.
And so they “fight” through Tweets and Chats and Posts. As if relationship communication were not already complicated enough.
The boy is conflicted. The Love is mad. The girl is watching. The boy is now no longer allowed to be friends with the girl by mandate of the Love. The girl finds this frustrating, though not world ending. She wonders why they cannot be friends and continue their witty repartee. But the Love said no and the boy had to prove his love to his Love. The girl goes on, she has friends in town from overseas, friends to meet for dinner and an internet friend to meet in the flesh. She is sad about the boy. Or maybe for the boy. But in the end she just logs off.
I mean really, they never even met.
[image from here.]
My own comedy of errors. And this shit is true. Seriously.
The only thing that is going to offer any kind of credibility to the following story is the simple fact that I could not really be making shit like this up, because if I could, I would no longer need a day job (and for the record, I DO need a day job, so if anyone has any fabulous ideas, call me.) For dramatic effect (though little is needed) I am going to start in the middle. We’ll see how that goes…
Apparently a funny thing happens to people when they get to be a “certain” age; they start to really re-evaluate their lives and, depending on said analysis, they start taking actions that might be slightly out of character. I am being euphemistic there. Basically, when people get to an age where they start to look at their lives more from the point of how they are ever going to get to do all the things they want to do rather than from the point of view that they have forever to do all the things they want to do, they start doing some whacked out shit. I believe I am at or around that age. Whether I have succumbed to the whacked-out-shit-phase is likely a fairly subjective notion.
One of the things that has fully dominated the psyches of many of the women I know and the men who will admit it within my peer group, is the partnering-up urge. It’s like a latent Sex & the City virus. I have never been married (or divorced – win!) so I will have to speak to some of these things as an observer rather than a practitioner, but I certainly have been on the coupling up bandwagon. Due to some pretty choice moments over the past couple of years, I am much more detached from this phenomenon, but it lingers and occasionally rears its ugly little head into my otherwise pretty satisfying life. One of these head-butts contributed to my creating a profile on an on-line dating site. Yeah, yeah. It was as bad as I could have ever imagined it. But as they say, ‘all my friends were doing it’ – and no, I would not jump off a bridge if ‘all my friends were doing it’ (mom) but, I thought, “Hey, it is the information age, maybe this is how people do it these days… I shouldn’t knock it until I try it.” [Error #1: not trusting my gut instinct that this was a really bad idea, at least for me - people who are unfamiliar with IRL dating should not embark on the virtual variety. Real. Talk.]
After creating a profile and meeting approximately three people, all of whom were really prefect for that scene, and totally repulsive to me, I realized that this was not the way forward no matter how many people told me they ‘met their husband on Match’ or they had a neighbor who found their soul mate in some forum, on such and such website. I was done. I happened to be having this conversation with two of my closest HK friends in October of 2008 as we sat in Carnegie’s enjoying a nice adult beverage. Now, one of these friends is committed to the on-line dating world and she is sticking with it, full throttle and has a clear agenda. The other could not be more of the opposite. I guess I was sort of the one in the middle, on the proverbial fence… but I was getting ready to jump over into friend #2′s yard. We were talking about the ins and outs of all of this: dating, meeting people, marrying people… The pros, cons, pressures, stereotypes, assumptions. All of it. It was sounding worse by the second and I was sure I was making the right decision to leap off the fence. In the midst of the conversation, my iPhone did its little techno bleep letting me know I had new mail. I checked it. It was an email from someone on the soon-to-be-deleted dating website. [Timing adds so much to this story.]
We/I opened the email. I looked at the message which said something along the lines of “I am from San Diego and graduated from UCSD and now live in San Francisco and travel to Asia frequently for business and will be there this weekend and your smile caught my attention and then I saw the UCSD connection and that there was a PoliSci connection and so hey.” In typing this now, the number of red flags seems more apparent than I thought at the time for sure, not the least of which is the implication of bullshit that can be detected from such effusive run-on sentences. I looked at his photo.
I knew this dude.
Amanda
