| A small pile of assorted goods is slowly growing around me as I dig deeper into the black plastic shopping bag. One t-shirt, white. One Hong Kong action flick, VHS. Two books, paperback... I'm thinking, why is it that people seem to have such a hard time being nice to eachother? At 30 years of age, I have recently been reminded of our tendency as humans to screw one another. Men and women in particular. We engage upon romantic forays, following our passions, struggling out on that limb that always seems ready to break, reassuring one another that "this is the real one". And there's nothing wrong with this, in fact it's quite natural. But just as natural, it seems to me, is our will to sabotage these creations the first chance we get. The will to create and the will to destroy - side by side - and in complete disharmony. To make matters worse, I am beginning to believe that somewhere around 62% of the American adult population has some type of social, psychological, and/or emotional disorder. It's no wonder the odds are so stacked against us. It all started about four months ago when I met Lynn at this party. A mutual friend - a friend who for various reasons had only recently regained my trust and acquaintance - introduced us. Apparently it was something he'd had in mind for some time. It was a small house party. Lots of booze and lots of food. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, it was a Valentine's Day party. How appropriate. I remember eating little multi-colored candy hearts out of a crystal bowl and washing them down with vodka and orange juice while we talked the night away. Lynn was fantastic. Everything I'd been looking for - and I wasn't even looking. See, long ago I had turned my back on what is commonly referred to as "the singles scene". The whole farce is really enough to disgust any sensible person. Me being rather insensible, I grew to loathe the whole process, contenting myself with a good book during Friday night drinking sessions at the local bar rather than take part in what to me was obviously a mutually degrading game. It took only a few months of careful observation to come to the conclusion that it doesn't take looks, intelligence, money, and certainly not class to meet women (although any combination of these things might certainly help). No, it just takes an acceptance of the game for what it is, and the willingness to utterly humiliate oneself playing it. So needless to say, outside of a few random sexual encounters that never really amounted to anything more than fodder for drunken guy-talk, the past couple years were by and large spent woman-free. The trepidation that I felt that February evening, then, when I realized quite early on that I could easily fall for this girl, was palpable. Did I really want to go through this? A month later we're having dinner to celebrate her 29th birthday. Not quite sure how things progressed so quickly, but by now we're spending nights at eachothers' apartments, taking her young daughter out for day trips, and possibly falling in love. Everything Lynn says is so on point, and when she speaks to me, it's with her eyes - deep-like, soliciting every ounce of trust and compassion a dedicated bachelor could possibly muster. Was I wrong all this time? Maybe I'd been missing out on something special after all. Things went pretty well for a while. We gradually got closer, and even made it through the infamous "I love you" debacle that so often kills relationships. But both of us came out unscathed, and seemingly happier than ever. I hadn't felt this way since I was 19. Then it happened. It wasn't one of those etheral sensations that keeps you up at night, wondering for weeks if everything is alright, laughing nervously and convincing yourself you're acting crazy. "Come on boy, you're new to this, you're misreading it all." No, instead this one hit like a Mac truck - manic-depression reared its ugly head, and within days every ounce of charm, kindness and wit that drew me to Lynn like a magnet was gone - she was cold as stone. It seemed she just couldn't resist the urge to take every last demon that she'd befriended since childhood and turn them onto this genuinely caring guy - this sucker that had wandered into her life had asked for it - And, while I'm no saint, it's no exaggeration to say that I treated Lynn good. I would have done anything for her. As it turns out, I either became a convenient punching bag for everything that was wrong in her life, or I just wasn't quick enough to dodge the blows. Whichever was true, no matter. The fact remained that Lynn no longer took any pleasure in developing our relationship - if she took any pleasure in life at all by that point - and it soon became pretty obvious that I was being given the heave-ho. Looking back, this probably saved my life. One watch, Rolex, fake. Three cassette tapes, assorted punk rock. One tub half-eaten, half-melted Breyer's Ice cream, chocolate. So here I am, exactly four months after we met, unpacking a bag of my stuff I just picked up at her house. I won't pretend to be any closer to understanding exactly what happened here, but an important lesson is to be gained from every such encounter. For one, I've realized that falling in love is really fun, and I don't think I'll be as afraid to do it anymore, though I'll probably be a bit more careful. For another, I learned that while our own feelings can often be misleading, those of others can be downright deceptive, so you gotta keep your guard up. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, I learned that before you get seriously involved with someone, for God's sake check their medicine cabinet. |
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