Posts Tagged ‘friendship’

25
Jan
2018

party girl

categories: me

I did my best to participate in the debauchery and depravity that is college life. In all honesty, I went to college to…you’ll never guess…get an education! Really. No one forced me to be there. There were no parental units guilt-tripping me into attending. The cocaine-toting, binge-drinking party-goers sort of swirled around my book-reading, homework-doing college self.

I am definitely not trying to paint some picture of a good girl. That, I was not. But, I was studious. And, I took college seriously because I was genuinely interested in learning. I had always loved school. As an escape from home but also as a place to learn about the big, wide world outside of my small-town life. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to experience everything.

I spent much of my high school career focused on extracurricular activities — college was the place for learning, I decided. College was the place to finally get a sense of the world around me. The history, the culture, the literature. I was a product of shitty, small-town schools, with the occasional incredible teacher but mostly a sea of small-minded, right-leaning, mostly white, mostly christian people. I was caught in the middle of the conservative reality of the town I called home and the liberal, commune ideology I’d grown up around.

College was, for me and for many others, a place where I could finally be myself. Or, rather, be the self I always wanted to be. I could shed the reputation I had earned/inherited, get labeled with all new adjectives, stick myself into the categories and groups I felt best defined me or supported me, and make all new friends. Friends who knew nothing about my background. People with whom I could start fresh.

It was exhilarating for me. Moving 3,000 miles away from where anyone knew my name was the most important gift I could have given my adolescent self. The gift of anonymity–where I could feel safe and free and normal.

24
Jan
2018

a social life

categories: california, me

I’ve been thinking about friendship a lot lately. Partially because I finally joined the 21st century, Instagram, and am therefore bombarded with images of happy cliques; and, partially because I’ve just moved 3,000 miles away from the place I have called home for the past 15 years. It’s gotten me to this too real place of acceptance and clarity.

In your 20’s everyone is your friend: people from high school, pals from college, work colleagues, friends of friends. You take em all. It’s like a decade of fishing where you don’t throw any back.

Then, in your 30’s you start pruning. Weeding out the emotional vampires and the “all drama all the time” crew. Some of it happens naturally–an illness in the family forces some friends to step up and others to show their true colors. Marriage, kids–some fall away naturally. You switch jobs/careers/partners and you find yourself with fewer and fewer friends. Which is actually pretty great–you spend more time with the people you genuinely love and who genuinely love you.

So, you’re chugging along, happily, with your perfect little crew of good friends. Then, all of a sudden, you make this giant life-change. And, it’s the right thing and everyone supports you but distance. Distance, man. It’s real. Time differences and work schedules, bedtimes and familial obligations and just life. Life in a new place happens. You have to restart your career and re-acclimate your kid. You have to find (or maintain) that inner circle all over again. But, how?

There are a trillion articles about making friends in your thirties. My problem isn’t making friends it’s maintaining friendships. How does one find the time as an adult? How do you prioritize friends over family or over self-care or over laziness and fatigue? How do you balance it all? This isn’t one of those, “how can we have it all” questions. This is just a very real query: how does one find the time and energy to be social in your late thirties–with a partner and a kid and a house and a career?

Where are all those extra hours the enviable #girlsquads on instagram seem to have?

 

19
Jan
2018

depression

categories: me

It didn’t happen all at once.

The pieces seemed small and unrelated–a quilt that hadn’t yet been sewn to make a cohesive thing.

I couldn’t leave the house without makeup.

I didn’t know it was one thing. I chalked it up to the move, to my new job, to my sudden weight gain and physical discomfort.

I watched the scale tip slowly toward a number I’d never seen before, packed bags of too-small shorts for the thrift store, ordered secret clothes online and hid them in my closet.

It seemed like a myriad of things–a response to stressful life circumstances.

I cringed at the bling sound of texts, the flood of my inbox, looking at my calendar would send my stomach into knots and my heart racing.

It never occurred to me to call it something. It never dawned on me that my behavior was becoming distant, dissonant, even to me. My sense of identity, of belonging, my sense of self.

I would fantasize about cancelling engagements, come up with lies to get out of meals, shows, dinners, walks, trips. I didn’t want to see or be seen.

It didn’t manifest in a day–it slowly came over me, covering me like a heavy quilt until I felt cradled by it, enveloped by it, identified with it, as it.

I’d talk about wanting to get better but sink into self-doubt and confusion trying to name what I needed to get better from.

Friends started commenting on my inability to sit still–a paper was misplaced and needed to be straightened, a crumb was in sight and needed to be swept.

I stayed up at night–every creak of our old house sent shivers down my spine. I knew it was an intruder. I scanned the room for objects that could be used as weapons. I slept with the bathroom light on.

It never occurred to me that my growing social anxiety and paranoia could be related. That my low self-esteem and my desire to binge-watch t.v. could be interconnected. Pain masked by habit, fear disregarded as a side-effect.

I knew people with depression. That wasn’t me.

I’m a normal person. I exist in this world with the same number of problems as anyone else, probably less. I’ve got a great partner, a wonderful kid, a job I like.

 

18
Jan
2018

first date // past

categories: california, me

“Where are we going?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“It’s a surprise,” he said in that growly sexy voice. He was 18 and out of high school, I was 16 and in the thick of teenage drama with its extreme highs and gut-wrenching lows–up for anything, experimental, reckless and naive.

At a party, his hand had brushed up against mine when reaching for his beer. It was as if time had stood still. I closed my eyes and everything went in slow motion. The long stroke of his dark finger across the back of my wrist, the way his head cocked, his eyes meeting mine just for a moment.

We’d only ever hung out in groups. We’d stare at each other from across the room–his gaze intense with those dark, sunken eyes. Then he’d look away, engaged in conversation, sipping a beer, nodding in agreement. His dark jeans and motorcycle boots, that simple white shirt with the black leather jacket hanging loosely off his muscular arms. The thighs of his pants greasy from working on his bike, his jacket dusty from walking the trails. His clothes smelled like 40 ounces of Olde English. His breath, a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes.

The inside of his car filled my nostrils–musty, sweaty, the smell of a man, I thought. “How much farther?” I asked innocently. We were screeching down the windy back roads of McCourtney. I knew this road well–my parents lived way down at the end–past where anyone had ever been. Except Adam. Who also lived past the point where any towny would go. We were boondock folks. The real rural. I felt safe knowing exactly where we were. Next, we’d pass the animal shelter, then the horse ranch. Then, we’d make our way up to the highest point of the mountain–the dump on our left and the most magnificent sunsets to our right.

The road was pitch black at the darkest hour of the night. It was treacherous even in the brightest part of the afternoon on account of the truckers illegally driving these back roads to avoid tolls–big pickups with trash spewing out from under their loose-fitting tarps. Deer, rabbits, snakes, critters of all sort roamed these woods and were known for darting out into the gray abyss of pavement just as cars were coming round one of the many bends in the road.

Tonight there was a full moon and a mountain lion warning (there was was always a mountain lion warning.) “What are you doing?” I screeched with excitement and fear.

“It’s fine. I can see everything” he said, as his rough hand touched my bare knee. I felt warm between my legs. “The moon is light enough,” he assured me as my eyes adjusted to where the beam of his lights had been. We turned off to the left. Where exactly had we turned? My eyes hadn’t quite acclimated and I’d somehow missed the placement of the road we’d gone down. Had we passed the dump? Had we passed the ranch?

“I’ve never been down here,” I said, searching the trees for something familiar. It was a dirt road, narrow and completely isolated–not one house, not a single driveway, just a road that kept ascending. The trees were thick, we couldn’t see anything but the glint of moonlight off the rocks just ahead of us.

“I thought I’d show you something new,” he said. He looked at me, a crooked half-smile, “Are you scared?”

“No,” I lied, feeling my knees shaking. I let my arm hang out the open window. The cool air whistled around my fingertips, my palm stretched out like a bat soaring through the dark night. The sound of the tires kicking up rocks against the tinny underbelly of his car, the dusty smell mixing with all of his smells and the pine needles and the spring flowers–my head was filled and confused, drunk on olfactory input.

“You..” I started, sounding drunk and confused, “…smell good,” I finished. He smiled and sort of looked down at the steering wheel.

“You’re a weird kid, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “I’ve been told.” I tilted my head to the right, my ear filled with wind and my hair flapped against my bare shoulder.

“You cold?” he asked.

“Um, a little. Yeah,” I admitted, rubbing the goosebumps on my arms.

“Hang on,” he said as he guided my hand to the steering wheel, “hold this for a sec.”

“Adam, I can’t!” I screamed. “I don’t have a license…and, I can’t see anything!” He laughed. I’d never heard his laugh before. It was real. It was big and low and genuine. The kind of laugh that makes everyone around you giggle. And, so I did.

He yanked his jacket sleeves off each arm, leaned over and put it around my shoulders. “Kinda cheesy, don’t you think?” I asked. “I mean, the whole, ‘give a girl your coat’ thing. It’s very John Hughes of you.” We’d bonded over our love of eighties movies, Portishead and our parallel upbringing.

“Yeah, well, sometimes a girl just needs your jacket.” He looked at me through those heavy lids. His eyes a deep brown, his thick black rockabilly hair wind-blown and askew. He’d grown up on a commune too. He was the first kid I’d met who was like me–weird and too grown for his age–reflective, sensitive and unable to fit in anywhere.

“This is it,” he said. There were two other parked cars. He brought me to a lookout? I thought.

“It’s a little ways from here.”

“This isn’t really my thing. Where are we?” I asked anxiously.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” he whispered.

We walked, and tripped, up a rocky path for what felt like miles into a clearing. I could make out a structure–a stone building, a rounded arena or stage or…I couldn’t quite make it out. It was falling apart, there were huge chunks of rock everywhere. As we got closer I could see melted wax on some of the outer walls, red and black graffiti and movement inside.

“I don’t like it here. I don’t like it here at all, Adam. Let’s go.” I said turning fast, catching my bare leg on a blackberry bramble. I pulled at the long vine, scraping the thorns all the way down my calf.

“Hey, wait a minute..” I heard him yell.

I did my best to retrace the path we’d climbed–losing my footing every now and again. He caught up, started to say something and stopped short.

We walked in silence.

“What was that?” I asked, slamming the car door.

“I don’t know it’s just kind of a hangout. People go there to drink and chill. There’s all these weird, creepy stories about like seances and devil worshippers who like, do their magic up there or whatever. But, it’s just kids trying to freak you out.”

“It gave me the heebie jeebies and it’s weird and freaky,” I said breathlessly. I could feel the droplets of blood on my calf. I better not have stepped in poison oak, I thought. “And, keep your fucking lights on. I’m not trying to die tonight.”

He shifted nervously in his seat, gripped the steering wheel too tight and cleared his throat, “I thought you’d be into it. There’s a really great view up there. And, it’s spooky but in a cool way.”

“I get it, I’m not pissed. I just felt weird up there, that’s all. Thanks for taking off with me.”

The sound of the wind took on a different tone in the quiet of his car–eerie, cold, lonely. Adam seemed to be breathing his cigarettes, not so much smoking them. His inhalations were deep, reflective almost, and he didn’t bother to blow the smoke out so much as simply exhale it naturally.

Adam turned onto the long, dirt road. “I can walk from here,” I said.

“It’s far, it’s dark out, let me drive you.”

“No, really it’s cool,” I countered, in need of the fresh air and the moonlight and the stars and the solitary walk. He leaned over to kiss me–I let him. His breath was hot and smoky and he pushed his tongue too far down my throat. I pulled back, attempted a half-smile and said goodnight.

I stood still, in the light of the moon, at the end of my road and watched him reverse his car back onto pavement. Dust rose up where his wheels had momentarily spun out on the gravel. I watched as the red of his tail lights faded behind the second hill of our shared road.

04
Jan
2016

processing

categories: me

It’s amazing to me how much bitching is required in order to process crap situations or encounters. Conversation after conversation retelling the same slight, emphasizing your side in the way only you can, which is to say: without any understanding of the other persons (possibly totally legitimate) perspective. In my head, I am like, so evolved–a skillful communicator, problem-solver, capable of being unemotional, objective and compassionate all at once. But, really, I’m mostly just wading in a pool of toxic emotions–a place where envy and self-doubt reign supreme–where judgments, misunderstandings, inconsistencies and pure acrimony live amongst dread and apathy. This is an image of myself that just doesn’t fit with the one I have in my head. It’s discouraging to upset the portrait of this joyful, optimistic, driven and contented person. The thing that is even more difficult to grasp is the fact that in reality, I am both. Perhaps not all at once. But, certainly I am one thing in one moment and another under contrasting circumstances.

Upon playfully teasing my hubby about his snoring it came out that the reason he gets so defensive when I report the behavior is because being “someone who snores” just doesn’t fit with his own self-image. I laughed at first but then it made complete sense to me. There are all of these things–the way we look, the way we respond to situations, where we work, what we wear, how we speak–that define the version of ourselves we have in our heads. When someone on the outside challenges one of those things–however small the detail may seem to them–it completely breaks down that self-image. “But, I’m quirky, eccentric, unpredictable! It’s a good thing, right? Right?” I found myself saying during an argument where my husband scolded me for something or other I had said–something that seemed lighthearted and funny and joke-y and me. There are things about myself that I believe. I believe them wholeheartedly and any attempt to undermine the me-ness of me is an attack on who I am at my core. In my head these things are unchangeable and factual and permanent. But, they’re not. We grow, we change–slowly sometimes, more quickly other times–sometimes without even realizing it. Our “higher selves” exist as an idea, a goal–as someone who would have, should have, could have said something more intelligent, less reactionary, more eloquent.

I’d really like to meet this idealized version of me. The version of me who always knows the right thing to say, who always looks put-together, who is kind but strong, intelligent and funny, self-assured and self-aware. This is the version I could use right now. Because if life is a mountain–with highs and lows and everything in between–then I am in the river basin looking up, paddling against the current in a starless sky. And, she’d sure as shit know what to do.

21
Dec
2015

oh, boy

categories: california, me, new york

so, i’m having one of those days. you know the kind. maybe i’m having one of those weeks, even. where punctuation just seems superfluous and getting dressed feels like an overwhelming task. forget showers. and, who needs makeup these days? i don’t know exactly why. moving stress. pressure to see people and do things. keeping track of way too many things in my brain: moving van, packing materials, medical records, refilling prescriptions, selling this dresser, giving this shelf away, bringing these four bags to the thrift store, bringing this box to the used book store, scheduling dental appointments, finishing up work tasks, doing all those last-minute new york city must-do things! it’s just too much. and, we’re trying to be all on top of shit by packing early but really we just keep spending time with our friends because…when will we see them again?! and, you know, we’re not cooking enough and we may have gotten rid of our plates a tad too early and we can’t replace the grapeseed oil because how can we go through a bottle in 3 weeks but also HOW WILL I MAKE POPCORN?!

so, i think it’s safe to say that the stress has officially gotten to me.

i’m not sleeping, i’m eating a lot of chocolate and my belly has that constant butterfly feeling like i’m about to get onstage and perform.

we got a tree. i thought it would make me feel all, in-the-spirit and festive. i just keep looking at that thing with total animosity. it’s got a real attitude problem, let me tell you. it’s just sitting in the corner of our livingroom being all beautiful and put together, staring into our chaos and judging. it’s a judgy little fucker, i mean it. tall, perfectly “tree”-shaped (some might say a bit too perfect, really. i mean, come on. show off), it’s all sparkly and calm and it just stands around. doesn’t offer to help out or pick up. it’s not doing any of the cooking and that bitch can drink! i mean, we are filling her bucket up at least once a day.

so between my judgy tree and the million tasks i’m attempting to stay on top of and still working full-time and a toddler who is becoming less and less comfortable with her dwindling book collection…things are about to get real. like, life is changing in a huge way ‘real’. like, everything you have known and everything you thought you wanted is about to be in your past ‘real’. like, the place you ran from, the place you thought you would never return to is about to be your future ‘real.’ and, truthfully it all sounds a bit terrifying. wonderful and filled with potential. exciting and exhilarating. and also gut-wrenchingly terrifying.

27
Oct
2015

hell is a hospital bed in sacramento // past

categories: california, family

“Take her to the hospital!” I shouted to the bumbling attendant on the other side of the too-white desk. “She’s really sick. Just take her, for god’s sake. You sent her to the fucking ER when she fell out of her chair. A distance of, like, one and a half feet.”

“That’s policy, ma’am. We call in every fall…”

“That can hardly be counted as a fall,” I interrupted. “She scooted off her chair. Whatever, I don’t care about that right now. She’s really sick now. I can’t believe you haven’t sent her to the doctor. She doesn’t sound right. She can hardly breathe, she’s not eating. What is wrong with you? She’s coughing but it sounds like something is stuck in her chest. She is NOT OKAY! Take her to the hospital!”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down. If you feel as though she needs to go to the hospital, you can call 911. At your expense. Or, find a way to get her there yourself,” She said with steely eyes trained on my quivering lips. I could feel my pulse, my heart racing, my stomach turning. Why hadn’t I just borrowed a car? Why didn’t I ask my friend to wait while I checked on my mom before she drove off? I knew she wasn’t well. I should have come in to figure out what was going on before letting her drive off, leaving me–us, stranded.

“May I please use the phone?” I asked calmly. The attendant was whispering to another staff member. Why hadn’t we put her in a place with nurses and doctors? Why did we think she needed this make-believe, hotel-resort? It was a sham but it seemed like the right place at the time. All the nursing facilities were cold and too bright and too sterile. They smelled like shit and clorox. No character, no charm. This place looked like the Four Seasons. Fresh flowers, carpets, thick curtains and elevator music everywhere. Even a small, enclosed outdoor space where mom could get some sun, smell some flowers, look at the clouds. It seemed so perfect. It seemed so much better than the other places. It felt like the obvious, though regrettably most expensive, choice.

Now, it felt like a beautiful prison. A stupid, fucking facade filled with incompetent people doing whatever they were told. Nothing more. My mom was a body, a bed, a mouth, a dirty diaper. Nothing more.

“Hey, Rach? Can you come back?” I sniffled into the cream-colored phone, twisting the spiral cord between my fingers. “Yeah. I need you to take us to the hospital. My mom’s really sick and these assholes won’t take her.” The two women in white glared at me for a moment, then seemed to forget or lose interest and walk away.

My mom was frail by then. No more than ninety pounds. All five feet, nine inches of her reduced to nothing. She just looked at me. Pleading with her eyes. Sad, quiet. Spit pooling at her chin. She would cough and I’d tell her to keep coughing–pound her back, rub her chest–in the hopes that something meaningful would come out and the gasping would stop. It was just a long, never-ending string of spittle. I pulled at it and wiped at the creases of her mouth, holding the gooey drops in my palms. She was feverish and chilled and pale. Dark grey circles framed her giant, unblinking eyes. She looked like a skeleton. A shadow.

“Pneumonia,” the doctor had said after the chest x-ray. “It’s good you got her here when you did. It’s quite advanced. A lot of fluid in her lungs. And she’s dehydrated so we’ll start an iv immediately,” he explained. “Also, you’ll need to begin adding a thickening agent to her liquids if she’s going to be drinking on her own. It’s entirely possible she did this to herself, it looks like aspiration pneumonia.”

I pinched myself. Squeezed my fists until my fingernails drew blood from the soft skin of my bare palms. I felt the shame building in the back of my throat. Felt the tears pooling behind my lids. Fuck. I knew she was sick. I should have come yesterday. Or the day before, I thought. I should have been there. Why am I working these stupid shifts at the restaurant all day and the bar all night? What is it for? So I can pay rent for my shitty room in a shitty apartment in the middle of fucking nowhere? Meanwhile, my mom is dying sixty miles away. Why did I even move back? I wondered. What was the point. What good was I actually doing?

I laid down next to her in the stiff hospital bed. I pulled the white sheet up to our chins and played peek-a-boo. I fed her bites of hospital pizza and ate her rejected, drool-covered pieces. When was the last time I ate, I wondered. We turned on the television: daytime soaps and game shows. She smiled at me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered as I spooned small scoops of chocolate pudding onto her tongue. She licked at it, like a house cat and nodded in approval.

It took them five tries and three different nurses but they finally managed an iv. They only blew up her vein twice. Ballooned up and out into her skin, all blue and purple. I nearly fainted. I’ve seen a lot, I’ve been through a lot. But, I have never felt so immediately woozy. The fluids helped bring her back a bit. She let her eyelids fall, half closed. She rested her head on mine.

I am a terrible child, I thought. I let the tears slide, silently down my face. Let them gather and fall onto my chest. Let them pool and grow together. A salty pond to wade in, to remind me that I am not whole. I am nothing. I’m always a step behind, a moment too late. It’s never enough. It never will be.

13
Aug
2015

relationships // present

categories: me, new york

You’d think I would have learned my lesson about matchmaking. I’ve had a few epic fails that should have forever discouraged my efforts.

Perhaps I persevered because I assumed it only applied to romantic endeavors. Well, as it turns out, it is just relationships in general. Just, matching humans with other humans that I am bad at.

This past weekend I attempted to link two of my favorite couple friends. I thought, we love these people. Why wouldn’t they love each other? We all have kids about the same age, we’re all fairly liberal-leaning, we’re raising our kids in similar manners, we are somewhat similar in income levels, no one is too snobby but we’re all a bit snobby in just the right ways 😉 Everyone is in a committed relationship that works for them. Perfect, no?

I pictured renting a house by the lake in the Adirondacks every fall, a winter cabin in the Catskills where our kids would build snow people and drink hot cocoa. We’d all take turns going out on date nights, we’d drink wine and make elaborate, decadent meals. We’d be the dynamic six! Raising kids, working hard and still making friends in our thirties!

Well, best laid plans.

Perfect, dream world, fantasy stuff. That’s what that was.

Turns out my super-awesome friends who I adore and want to share do not so much adore one another. How this could be true, I do not know. They are all — all of them(!) — wonderful people. Like, friends forever folks. But, then again, my two best girlfriends are friends (in air quotes) who, I am quite sure would cease to even attempt to maintain the illusion of friendship if I were taken out of the equation.

Why is that Sex and the City foursome so incredibly difficult to actualize. Who are these people who like each other all exactly the same amount? Four besties. Who has that? I have all these wonderful friends but I get them in a room and my teacher friends don’t know what to say to my college friends and my musician friends have no clue how to interact with my mommy friends and then add my husbands friends (who have now become my friends) into the mix and it’s just a shit show of awkward exchanges and crappy small talk.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m guilty of it too. I go to my husband’s friends’ weddings and I have no clue what to say to people. I use my daughter as an excuse to get out of any conversation that isn’t going well. “Oh, darn. She’s gotta go potty. Talk later…” or “She’s getting so tired, I’ve really gotta get going. Great to meet you…” I mean, it’s bad. Who am I? What have I become? I used to pride myself on this social crap. I was the queen of banter. The master bullshitter. I could hang with anyone. Rich, poor, liberal, conservative, old, young. I was the puppet master. Now I use the cheap, I’m sorry, my mouth is filled with hors d’ oeuvres so I can’t talk to you, excuse. Or the, I see you coming for me so I’m going to duck into the other room to grab my phone which is probably, no, definitely ringing. Silently. But, I am expecting a call. So, I’ve definitely got to grab this, trick. The eye aversion, what a delightful chandelier. The, I see someone I actually know beeline. The, excuse me I need to ______ (use the bathroom/get a drink/find my husband) line.

I have no idea what happened. It’s not for lack of confidence or a lack of topics to discuss. It’s not because I don’t find the people interesting or because I think I’m better than anyone. It’s just pure laziness, I think. Really. Honestly. It’s the, I am so fucking tired and the last thing I want to do is chit chat, reality of adulthood and parenthood.

And, so maybe this is the problem with my couple friends. It’s not a wedding reception but it’s kind of the same idea. I already have friends. I’m already stretched too thin between my job and my kids and the few friends I do have so why would I make time or put forth any effort to extend my circle to include people who’s company I may (or, more likely may not) even enjoy? I get it. It’s a bummer. But, I get it. I feel the same way. I just have selfish motivation for creating these bonds. All I want is a damn cabin in the woods and a few friends who get along to split the cost. Is that really too much to ask? Sheesh.

13
Aug
2015

relationships // past

categories: me, new york

I am no Yente. Or, maybe I am. Wasn’t she terrible at her job? I can’t quite remember. The point is, I am not good at matching people. In fact, I suck at it.

In college I tried to set up two friends of mine. They liked the same bands and were about the same level of hotness. They were both fashion-conscious but not fashion-obsessed. Both pianists, born one month apart. They each spoke two languages and had mixed-race parents. From my perspective they seemed like the perfect fit. How could they not like each other? And, of course, they had me in common. They both liked me, it should follow that they would like each other.

In retrospect, perhaps it’s that they were too similar. Or, perhaps it’s that there is so much more to falling in love than having things in common.

Whatever the reason, it was a complete disaster.

“What could EVER have made you think I would like him?” Ari asked me the next day.

“What do you mean? He’s not hot enough?” I asked.

“No, that’s not it. He’s cute,” Ari offered.

“He’s really smart. He just moved here from California. Maybe he just spoke more slowly than you’re used to.”

“No. No, he’s definitely an intelligent guy.”

“Was he a dick? I don’t see Colin being a dick. Were you a dick? Shit, Ari. Please don’t tell me you were mean. Were you mean?”

“I wasn’t mean. But, I don’t think there’s any question as to how I felt..”

“You were mean. Did you crush him? I’ll kill you if you crushed him. I don’t understand. What was the problem?”

Apparently, it was the opposite of love at first sight. Yuck at first sight, maybe? In another world, had they met in a music class or at a show it might have been different. Maybe they’d have talked and discovered how much they had in common. Maybe they’d have been friends. Not lovers, for sure. Clearly there was no attraction. But, friends perhaps. As it was, I had to make promises to both of them that they would never end up in the same room together. I don’t think they even wanted to be in the same borough.

For reasons I still don’t understand — despite the fact that it was clear from the get-go that there was absolutely no connection — they felt compelled to go through with the entire evening. From start to finish. Which would have been no big deal if it was a movie — which can be enjoyed in silence — and dinner, where you can spend most of the night with your mouth crammed full of food. Alas, it was not. It was a complicated, perfect gay New York evening which had been planned down to the last detail and lasted from eight o’ clock to midnight. Four hours of socializing with someone with whom you felt no inclination to date or even to get to know. Drinks at some dive-y, dingy bar in the east village. Cock? Something phallic-sounding with naked bartenders. Then dancing at Barracuda in Chelsea and on to a performance art “gallery” and a late-night meal at some pop-up bar/restaurant/club in the meatpacking district. It was all way too cool sounding, even for me (a punky, artsy, barely-twentysomething).

Maybe it was too cool for Colin too. When I really thought about it, Ari was edgy. Colin was quiet. Ari liked to dance. Colin liked to watch dance performances. Ari hardly ate whereas Colin loved a four-course meal at an expensive restaurant. Ari made moody, piano music and Colin was happy listening to Sondheim.

What was I thinking? Of course they were a terrible pairing. They seemed so good on paper but when you broke down the nuances of their interests, looked a bit more closely at the details, you would see that in actuality, they had little in common. And, their “perfect” date night probably could not have been more different. I’m guessing Colin wanted to run scared at the sight of the bartender in his skivvies at their first stop in the village. I imagine it was all downhill from there. Awkward dancing where Ari probably flirted with everyone but him. Some strange performance art in which a woman screams at you whilst sitting atop a pedestal, a crap “meal” in some pop-up that was probably located in a shipping container off the West Side Highway or a giant warehouse on a cobble-stoned street in the meatpacking — which still reeked of actual rotting flesh back in those days. Colin probably thought he was being taken somewhere to be murdered. Those neighborhoods looked pretty different in 2003. Not scary but after dark “sketchy” wouldn’t be too far off base. And, especially to someone new to New York.

I think Ari intended for the night (if it was going well) to stretch into the wee morning hours. The really interesting spots weren’t even getting started until well after midnight. Thankfully, he’d held back on those details and left Colin to fend for himself around 11:45. Colin hailed a cab and made his way back to his friends apartment off union square. He called me two days later, confused and slightly traumatized.

“Ari was a bit…intense,” he said. Code for crazy. “He certainly likes to party,” he continued. Code for, he’s way too hardcore for me and also, he cuh-razy! I forget that people are one way in their friendships and another way in their romantic endeavors.

“I’m so sorry,” I groaned. “I heard a bit about it from Ari.”

“Yeah. Shit. I can’t really imagine how it all looked from his side,” Colin confessed, feeling embarrassed and low.

“Oh my god, it’s not you. It’s one hundred percent my fault. You two were not right for each other. You are sweet and thoughtful and you don’t have to enjoy cock in your drink to enjoy cock in your…well, you know what I mean. Listen, you deserve someone who will give you a night you’ll enjoy. Theater, dinner at an actual restaurant with signage and like, chairs and stuff. Ari’s pretty wild. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m really sorry.” I felt so crummy. Colin felt rejected and Ari was pissed at me for wasting one of his Friday nights so that he could “babysit my friend.” It was an all-around disaster.

Never again, I swore. I will never try to set any of my friends up again.