Chapter Afterstand up, dust off, and get moving

I keep remembering things I thought I might be able to say, that I wouldn’t be able to reveal without some small veil of anonymity. The little thoughts that helped me decide to finally start the site. Mostly things that might present legal problems later, but also emotional details that, while discussion-worthy and (dare I say) interesting to read, might also cause me social problems if publicized. Just me knowing it was known might weird me out plenty in its own.

But I did recall something that came to mind before I managed to get the domain registered. I thought it, and wondered if it was true:

K__ and I finally got tired of living with this annoying, depressed other person who was so convinced they had it so hard. It depressed us, annoyed us, started forming vicious circles…

I told you I was having bouts of only remembering the good stuff. Or maybe this is my usual self devil’s advocacy. In any case, I forgot about it until just now when I was sitting here contemplating the year. This site gives me a chance to try out some radical honesty & self reflection, and that’s a far better use than talking extra-legal smack about my wife. I didn’t want the year to go out without breathing the thought into the universe–it’s so distilled, encompasses such a wide range of issues. It has a certain “truthyness.” It assigns no inherent (certainly not unequal) blame.

I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but it’s a thought that’s given me pause. And New Year’s Eve is a time for such things.

To the chapter after 2009. To 2010.

Morgan Spurlock had that show 30 Days. I only saw a few episodes from the first season, but I loved the concept. Take people firmly embedded in one lifestyle and completely reboot their trip for a month–probably the minimum amount of time required for such an experiment. I haven’t been keeping careful track, but I know I sent the landlord his second check yesterday, so it’s the general vicinity.

After reading a few of these posts, it should be pretty clear I’m no Pollyanna and let me assure you, that’s no recent development. I’ve been asking myself if I’m happier now that I’ve moved out, and I suspect that the honest answer is “No.” Something interesting happened when I asked the same question a different way. Am I sadder now? “Hell no.”

I read something a few months back about failed relationships–they did a study in which people were asked to tally the positive and negative interactions they had per day, week, month, etc. I’m not sure the exact details of what counted as an “interaction” or whether the positive/negative-ness was binary or a weighted scale. The point was that there appeared to be a universal ratio of 5:1, good-to-bad interactions. That was the threshold at which people seemed to report being happy with their relationship vs being unhappy.

Am I having fewer positive interactions with my wife? Sure. But, we are simultaneously having nearly zero negative interactions. Better ratio, happier me–happier us if I guess correctly. Ironically, this is the point at which it starts becoming possible (likely?) to overlook our bad history and selectively remember the “good times.” Possible, but not (yet) probable.

I thought it was telling that I don’t really feel much lonelier now, living by myself, than I did living with my wife. At least what loneliness I feel now makes some kind of sense. It’s a cruel distinction–an it-could-be-worse thought experiment that does little to massage the present-tense ache. What hurts the most is truly what’s hurting right now.

Only two days left in 2009, and I won’t miss it one bit. It’s been a real bitch as the years go, and that’s not just the recession talking. While I was out recently, someone asked the group, “Any new year’s resolutions?” My wit was clearly unappreciated, “I think all of mine are dirty.” Perhaps thinking I might be poised to elaborate (I wasn’t), she disappeared not to return.

I do have some resolutions, though I prefer not to think of them as such. It makes me feel cliche and old, especially given the list: Exercise more. Cook at home. Write, read, draw, and generally be productive rather than watching movies and surfing the pipes.

I picked up my bike with I__ last night. The lock’s so un-used that I tore up my knuckle unlocking it. Again.

Kid juggling has been going incredibly well, all things considered. When we first talked about it in the fall, K__ was adamant that we provide some kind of regular structure to the schedule. The chaos will be intense enough as it is. I wholeheartedly agreed, but mostly because I like being able to plan at least three or four days out. Occasionally, it’d be nice to know a week or two in advance if I can pull off a long weekend adventure–it doesn’t happen often, but I’d like to be able when it does.

The big split went down around Thanksgiving and I didn’t even bother trying to revisit this notion knowing that the Christmas holidays would run a lot smoother if I just greased the wheels with a bit of patience and flexibility. Christmas’ box has been checked off with a festive, fat, red pen and only New Year’s is left. K__ is taking I__ up to A__ for a long weekend, so not only am I paying for it up front with a longer-than-usual string of nights in a row, but (K__ announced last night) she had plans for the following (long) weekend and could-I-cover-that-too.

I have a good time with I__, and it’s no major hassle. I was curious what she was up to since all the important relatives will have been visited. I asked, but the subject was conveniently changed, and I didn’t bring it back up. Once again, visions of a tryst with her boyfriend danced uncontrollably in my head, imaginary though it may be. I realized a few weeks ago, I don’t care–do what you want; I plan to. I don’t feel the pangs of regret, nausea, and instantaneous diarrhea when I contemplate it anymore, but the morbid intellectual curiosity is beyond my power to shut down. It’s like a math problem I know is just within reach to solve if I would just give it a few more moments of concentration. It’ll be somewhat of a test of my own resolve, but I won’t be inquiring again. Let someone else discover what two plus two equals if you convert to base whatever-the-fuck first. I can always google it later if it really matters.

I haven’t had people over to my new place yet, and I’ve been thinking about a post-midnight New Year’s “Eve” party. Like all such fantasies, I’m terrified that no one will show up. More likely, I’ll end up with more party than I can handle, no space for the drunken to crash, annoyed neighbors, unfriendly cops, and every bit as cold a bed as I would have had spending the evening alone. Such drama is for the young, and I have no patience for it anymore. Except of course, it feeds the fire here, and in light of that, how can I not bow to the power of the great-story-that-could-be?

Everything you thought you knew about depression confirmed and/or denied by Stanford biologist, Robert Sapolsky. Give him a minute to get going, but if you find the topic interesting at all, you’ll be rewarded.

It’s been so long since I’ve been through the holiday season “single”, I’d forgotten that the local hard-core alcoholics scene does not give a flying fuck what day it is. The bar will probably be open anyway. So it was Christmas Eve, and our friendly bartender made sure we were aware, so it would be Christmas proper. The crowd was barely thinned,  but P__ and I grabbed two of the last remaining stools and hunkered down. It was only meant to be a (that’s one) beer, but the bartender served up shots of something festive and delicious on the house, and that quickly became two.

About an hour later, N__ walked in. I hadn’t seen her since the week I moved back to town to get married eight years ago, and she hadn’t seemed especially excited to see me. As I recall, she didn’t usually get much excited about anything, so probably nothing personal. This time her eyes lit up, and she came right over to say hello. I asked if she was still living in town; no, visiting for the holidays. Where from? L.A. I hate L.A., but it’s not really fair because I’ve only been through it once, so the only thing I experienced was the traffic–not its best side from what I understand. What’re you doing there? I’m a lawyer.

Damn.

Now, I’ve always had a nose for quality. The girls I was into in high-school almost always turned out to be the hottest, most successful twenty-somethings. If I could pick stocks as well, I’d be a lot richer. N__ wasn’t what I’d call “driven” at the time we met. She waited tables and worked at the local indie theater best I can recall. We shared a snarky, misanthropic slant that was only defensible via its expression through appreciation of art and literature. Ten years later, she’s a west-coast lawyer working on some multinational human-rights case.

“You know P__, right?” P__ is a local artist with some serious street cred, and he was pretty well known in the area even back when N__ and I were dating.

She didn’t.

Her boyfriend (?) I recognized from his days as the manager of a local coffee-shop. I chatted him up for a bit–turns out he’s now a professor of Psychology. I didn’t know him, but I wouldn’t have given either of them the kind of credit that they’d go turn themselves into successful professionals. It gives me a lot of hope though. I’ve been thinking lately that the most admirable trait of any human being is the ability to change their mind–to recognize that something is wrong, not with the world, but with themselves and to go and fix it. Good on ya, you guys. I could use the role models right now.

None of the very fine ladies who said they would/might stop by the studio actually did. Or I missed them somehow; very glad I didn’t get my hopes up in any case. E__ was at the bar last night and, I’m guessing, a lot more sober.

It’s all but dead downtown today, at least on the street, as everyone finishes up their Christmas preparations or is traveling. We just got back from lunch, where, as we were leaving, one of the staff said hi. “We met Saturday at T__’s party. J__, right? I’m A__.” I didn’t recognize her at first, mostly because in Saturday’s light her hair had looked very dark, whereas now, it looked almost blonde. Also, she’s one of the trio I thought couldn’t wait to ditch me. It was a very nice surprise to be remembered–and spoken to! P__ says she’s married, though. That sucks, I guess, but I’ve started to expect that as the norm over the last handful of years. Again, can’t be disappointed about something you didn’t think was possible in the first place.

While we were eating lunch, both P__ and I couldn’t help but be a little distracted by the women at the next table. What with all the cleavage spilling out and all. It would’ve been nicer, but I kept noticing little turn-offs. The weather-inappropriate clothing. The probably-fake boobs. The stilletto-heeled boots (not my favorite, sorry). The French nails (a growing pet anti-fetish of mine). And the topper–when splitting the bill, the biggest pile of cash I’ve seen in quite some time, counted, recounted, and generally in plain site for far longer than I would have assumed anyone would be comfortable with. All of it screamed escort, or stripper at least. Like most of what passes for true in my imagination, I’m probably way off base. She’s probably just a waitress somewhere with a stupid dress code. Occams razor.

Everything comes into focus around holidays. Emotions that usually are visible only as soft shadows become harsh, crisp, unmistakable. I don’t remember the last time I was alone Christmas Eve, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t like it. D__’s relationship is under stress, and the holidays are looking more like something to be survived than enjoyed. My friend J__, who’s also working his way through a divorce, provided the perfect metaphor via his Twitter page. One snapshot of his afternoon, simple, and honest–the image hangs heavy with melancholy. The pain of being lonely is not in the present tense, but in the implied, uncertain future. How much longer will this last, and how much longer will I be able to stand it?

This is definitely the first time in my life that loneliness has been self-imposed. I’ve been invited numerous times to spend Christmas Eve with my wife and her family (and my son naturally). It’s tempting (perhaps the way dental work is tempting), but seems dishonest and weak. As many times as I’ve accused K__ of wanting to have her cake and eat it too, I don’t know how to reconcile the conflicting desires. On the one hand, I ought to be spending this time with my boy, and K__’s family is fantastic and supportive. Even K__ herself is tolerable or better the vast majority of the time. However, if we’re really separating/separated then are we not supposed to be figuring out how to navigate this time apart? Isn’t it to be expected that sometimes being together will look enticing just as separating looked enticing when we were together? The easy thing to do isn’t always wrong, but it sure seems like it.

I spoke with a woman last night who said she separated many months ago, got back together, and ended up separating again. K__ and I did a little of that when we were dating, but I don’t have any desire to repeat the pattern, nor do I think it would do anything but further confuse I__.

I can only assume that, much like Thanksgiving, the thing itself will be mostly enjoyable. It’s only the anticipation that’s sad and frightening. Overall, I’m feeling quite festive this year. I’ve decorated, spent a truly American sum of money on gifts, and I’m looking forward to the long weekend and time with loved-ones. All the best to you and yours. Merry Fucking Christmas!

So I’ve been looking at a (relative) lot of pornography. Surprise. What? You don’t look at pornography? Ok, well, then statistically, everyone else you know is looking at it because there is a whole lot of pornography out there, and a whole lot of people are looking at it. They’ve made a list. Checked it twice. But you’re that “nice” slice of the pie chart. Fine. Stay with us “naughties” here anyway.

There’s the stuff we like and the stuff we don’t like; finding the stuff we like means wading through the stuff we don’t. And let me just state for the record (good thing “Anonymous” has one) how completely and totally fucked I find the following:

You’re watching a sex video, and the girl gets herself all worked up, and you like her, and you like what she’s doing. She seems into it. Then the stud comes in, and everything’s cool for awhile, (usually if there’s going to be trouble, the guy will try to face-fuck the girl right away during “the blowjob”.) and things progress. Then there’s the first cut and they’re fucking, new position maybe, everything still seems fine, they seem to be having fun, and then you start to see she’s not into it, then she’s desperately trying to stimulate herself so she can be wet so it’s not clearly so very uncomfortable/painful, so she’ll enjoy it, and it gets a little more uncomfortable to watch and a little more and a little more and oh god the humanity! It’s like the empathy gland in your brain comes to orgasm. It’s. A long slow headfuck is what it is.

It goes from being the stuff you like to the stuff you don’t like real fast. If I had actually been trying to get off at the time, I’d be scarred for life (well, no, sadly). In fact, I’ve found this scenario so pervasive in videos that it threatens to turn me off of porn forever and

GOD DAMMIT, CAN A LONELY MAN NOT HAVE ONE VICTIMLESS VICE IN THESE HARD TIMES?!

Can we please make the videos of two people fucking who are enjoying it? Or who know about personal lubricants? Or have had sex before so they can find out if there’s chemistry so they don’t waste their time filming it? Or  mine watching it? People that are into that, let them live with their own consciences, I don’t want it on mine.

I guess it’s another example of how declaring a behavior deviant causes it to become associated with and attract more deviant behavior to it over time due the inherent deviance of having been declared “criminal”. It attracts criminals. And all their crime.

Ugh. This is not the dirty I want it to feel.

Weekends are made for cavorting or desperately trying to, and the impending holidays only up the ante with festive spirit, snuggle-worthy weather, and parties, parties, parties. Summer gets all the skin, but it seems to me, winter gets all the romance.

I’d welcome a bit of either at the moment, so I had been looking forward to this weekend’s overlapping party schedule for a couple weeks now.

The weather outside was frightful on Friday, and I found myself half-hoping for a replay of that winter storm a decade ago that brought the entire area to its knees for three or four days. Pickup snowball fights with the neighbors, everyone forced to walk to the grocery store, sledding in the streets without fear of cars. Absolute heaven. It was not to be. The flakes turned back into cold-cold rain and stayed that way.

I worked late, and not having any real plans, grabbed a quick bite to eat at The P__ and ate at the bar solo. It isn’t so much that I can’t find friends to hang with, but more that I’ve decided goddamn it I will learn to be self-sufficient socially. I will go places by myself and chat people up until I get over the awkwardness or it kills me. At dinner, I got a surprise hookup from the bartender because I go for lunch “all the time.” Feeling completely rockstar and twelve dollars richer, I hoofed it up to The L__ to go about breaking even.

Good time, got there before the crowd (weather probably helped), wrote a bit, ran into an old friend about the time I started feeling alone and anxious. By that time, I’d already downed my allotment of whiskey for the evening (two fingers, count ‘em, one, two), and spoken to a couple of strangers. Also, E__, R__’s old girlfriend was drunk (?) and decided she recognized me even though I’ve seen her out at least three times in as many weeks and she hasn’t even given me eye contact. She was flirty, and that was undeniably pleasant, but I couldn’t help wondering whether it was just the booze, or if she was just fishing for a job where I work. Nor could I help not giving anything resembling a flying fuck. Man cannot live on bread alone, but a single good hug once a week from a beautiful woman will certainly improve one’s constitution. She said she’d stop by the office sometime. We’ll see.

Saturday night was T__’s big throwdown. I had a boring company dinner earlier, but had plenty of time to get back and arrive fashionably late. The initial plan was to show up with a few bottles of booze, but I hadn’t bought it yet. Plus, I wanted to stop by C__ anyway, and I hadn’t yet supported their little enterprise, so I bought $50 worth of decadent treat-age (that’s with the friends-and-family-bulk discount) and continued onwards to getting lost in O__ like always.

I showed up and the place was packed just shy of shoulder-to-shoulder. I knew I wasn’t bringing enough to go around and had already been scheming on a plan to use that to my advantage, but this was way more intense a scene than I’d been expecting. The music was pumping pretty loud too, so it made the chances of fomenting cage-matches-for-cupcake contests slim-to-none.

All the same, I guessed correctly that a giant box of highly-alcoholic and highly-fattening desert would make an easy conversation piece. One that I’d only contemplated seriously volunteering to discuss with the ladies, judge that as you may. Before I could even start picking out my first victim, one of the older guests (drop-dead gorgeous and my own age) points at my box and asks “What’s that?” Fool. Right into my trap.

[ed note: Well, not exactly. I don't remember getting to talk to her ]

With very little warning, the confections were sliced, diced, and out of my hands, and the three women I’d been describing them to as the box left my hands were all standing there in a little half-circle clutching their beverages. A ghost-of-their-conversation-past returned, and in a moment I resisted the very strong urge to go find someone I knew. Instead I stood my ground for a second, and things instantly got a little weird. More than once, I think we all took an awkward sip in unison. That’s when I remembered that these poor things were probably just as shy as I was.

“I’m J__.”

It didn’t go great, but it went. Small talk is hard enough — I didn’t know how to engage them all at once without coming off all, “Which one of you fine honeys wants some of this?” so I did the best I could round-robin. As soon as I got into an exchange with the only one (apparently) able or willing to handle multi-word responses, the others fled for comfortable cover. I’m sure whatever-her-name-was gave them no end of hell for abandoning her there with that strange, dirty, old man.

The dudes standing outside in the smoking section were just as impenetrable — maybe more so. I think they mistook me for some douche because I was still wearing the same jacket from dinner earlier. Jesus. The fucking host was wearing a tie, what you want I should be wearing? Oh wait. I don’t actually care what you think. I’m only joining your looser sausage party out here in the cold to get some breathing room before I jump back into the fray inside.

Later, I had a great conversation with the beautiful, talented, and incredibly successful (soon famous?) owner of a local fashion startup. Make that married, beautiful, talented, and incredibly successful. She too promised to stop by the studio sometime before being dragged (literally) away by someone who I presume was her husband. Once again, it was fantastic until I mused upon what felt genuine and personal and what might be “just business”.

I mingled, I danced, I drank, I made small talk. I went home alone the same way I arrived. On the drive home I sortof made eye contact at an intersection. She looked like she was probably beautiful. We returned our gazes to the light. I always wonder what the other driver is thinking when that happens, especially at 3am.

It’s well known that getting too much or too little sleep are common signs of depression. I’m more the former. I escape into the unconscious at night after spending the day wrapped up in my head. I suppose then, that there are those whose problems keep them up at night, while their days stay full enough with the drudgery of muddling through to keep them preoccupied.

I’ve gone from getting eight to nine hours per night to six or seven–sometimes less. This, at the time of year when the sun is in deepest retreat and even those with the strongest emotional fortitude find themselves inexplicably moody.

I wouldn’t say I’m any more or less depressed than before, although the trend seems to be steady improvement. It’s made me wonder whether the classically understood causes and effects have been reversed. To wit: it’s not your depression making you sleep — it’s your sleep making you depressed.

I’ve already mentioned this week that I’m disappointed in myself for not using my time more wisely — that’s true for the daylight hours as well as the evenings. I haven’t watched a movie or television in a couple weeks and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve accomplished what little I have due to the de facto deprogramming. It’s so easy to flog one’s self over the squandered time. I could have been housecleaning. Grocery shopping. Writing. Reading. Learning one of four or five software packages on my list. Working on this or that freelance project. Studying Japanese. Dutch. Spanish. Practicing guitar. Running. Lifting weights. Making that first million.

Instead, I’m (honestly?) completely preoccupied with getting laid. There’s something about being cheated on that creates an itch that must be scratched. I wish it wasn’t so — my feminist tendencies lecture me internally about objectification and such. I could pretend, but I feel guiltier about being dishonest than being a dog. Were I in possession of the opposite set of equipment, all this wouldn’t be a problem. Generally, a woman can go about getting what they need without too much worry or effort — but any man will tell you that the sticky stench of desperation will follow you around like a black cloud if you try following suit.

I know intellectually that I’d be much better off engaging in any of the activities on my little ad-hoc to-do list. They’d make me happier; they might even help attract someone. Someone who’s also happy. Instead, I find myself considering all manner of “solutions,” up to (yes, and including) paying for it.

We like to think we’re all modern now — women in the workplace, stay-at-home dads, etc. I’m down with all that. But it remains true that on the dating scene, you will be buying the bulk of the dinners, drinks, and tickets. A fancy car & house might attract the “wrong” kind if person, but they don’t necessarily turn the “right” kind away. A million in the bank never hurt anybody’s chances. I wouldn’t be the first to decide that it’s more straight-forward (and perhaps even cheaper) to go for the sure thing.

I just woke up from this crazy dream.

I was in a strange city on my way, apparently, to a job interview. The first half of the dream, I was trying to navigate to the right building. For most of the later half, the right floor / room.

Finally, I make it to the waiting area, and they’ve been kind enough to lay out breakfast pastries for the candidates while we wait. It’s some vague, high-level VP internet advertising gig, but everyone interviews back-to-back like at a casting call.

We’re all trickling in, and the more outgoing & confident folks are chatting each other up. Networking, probably, since there’s a lot more people than position. The rest are either feeling as out-of-their-league as I am, or keeping their cards to their chest, trying to maintain some psychological advantage.

The conversation between extroverts escalates into a shit-talking match, and it dawns on me I’ve got absolutely no game here. A woman drops some of her stats which includes the list of languages she speaks and her score on a reading test I’ve never heard of and a number over 1000, which I can only assume is really good or impossible. B__ F__ is there (a very successful colleague I know mostly from a mailing list we’re both on). He confidently replies with a well-reasoned monologue about how any one of them could put together a banner campaign that met a series of metrics with buzzword acronyms I’d also never heard of, but what he brings to the table is … (this part of the dream is lost in a fog because what he said was so hard-core, I honestly didn’t comprehend a word of it.)

Right about then, it’s my turn. The others wish me luck, and clearly don’t mean it. I turn around before leaving the room, smile broadly, flip everyone off with both hands, and tell them they can suck it — this thing is mine. I’m met with a mix of groans, chuckles, and sighs of relief — one less competitor to worry about.

There are two interviewers around a conference table. We approach to do introductions and shake hands. That’s when I notice my mouth is so full of croissant that I can’t even swallow. I’m going to have to pull the whole bite out of my mouth (and find somewhere to deposit it) before I can even say hello. I apologize and they say it’s ok, but I know it’s only because I’ve just made their job that much easier. The douchebag with the clipboard writes something down. I think
he’s smirking.

Right then my phone rings and wakes me up, two minutes before my alarm was going off anyway.