Chapter Afterstand up, dust off, and get moving

I__ is with mom tonight, and I just cooked my first honest meal at the new place. None of this pre-processed microwave cheating. Vegetarian to boot and didn’t even use a recipe. Delicious.

If you’re used to preparing your own meals, this probably doesn’t sound like much of an accomplishment. And it’s not. But I’m seriously out of practice, and I’m proud of the fact that I pulled it together without a trip to the grocery store — something else falling to procrastination right now.

When K__ and I split, I wondered how she would miss having someone take care of her financially (she … er … isn’t missing it at all so far) and how I would miss having someone cook and clean. I told myself I had taken care of myself before, and I would take care of myself after, but deep down I wondered how it would work out in real life. So far, I’ve been eating way too many meals out, but that’s honestly more about being lonely than it is about being lazy.

I’d brag about not spending any money today (I ate lunch in too), but I feel a drink coming on.

The local college radio station had a couple ladies running a soul music show last night. I wasn’t really paying attention until they started talking about how if you were separated, you ought not to be out cavorting and looking for something new. The time apart is for healing your relationship, not going off and fucking over someone new.

Now, it was pretty clear that some current star was embroiled in some marital drama that had become publicized and they were commentating on it, but I was already dialing the station before they asked for callers.

In retrospect, it’s probably best they didn’t air my comments. The first thing I asked was, “Are either of you ladies married (or divorced)?”

Uh-huh, I didn’t think so.

“Every pop song on the radio
is suddenly speaking to me.
Art may imitate life,
but life imitates TV”

– Ani DiFranco, Superhero

The dive bar I haunted as a 20-something was sold and promptly gentrified into something nobody wanted to drink in. The patrons of that scene have gone through at least two other venues and have now settled in upon a newish place called The L__. I’m told it’s the same crowd anyway, but I’ve been three or four times now and don’t recognize most of the faces. Stands to reason. Ten years is a long time.

Which brings us to the manner in which my mind was blown this very evening. Perhaps, in retrospect, it’s not really that big a deal to anyone but me–but I’m me, ergo, I firmly found it to be a Very Big Deal ™. Just to keep it spicy, I’ll transcribe the passage I wrote in my notebook verbatim–I’ve been enjoying that: going to the bar, ordering my drink, and, since I don’t know anyone, burning through three or four pages in my sketchbook so I have something to do with my hands and mind.

…

Once upon a barstool, I couldn’t shake the ice in a highball glass without slinging condensation on someone I knew. R__-town, if she missed me at all, it was a short mourning. I would have been disappointed, but can you blame her really? Time stops for no man, much less a whole city.

Can’t even finish the paragraph before running into R__, my first lover. The universe has a twisted, wicked sense of humor. Laugh fucker, it’s funny. When your life has only known two great loves, one of whom you married, who else do you think fate would have you find on the other side of the window’s glass? No, it couldn’t be. But it is. No matter how large this city seems to grow–to the point I wonder if I’m a stranger in my own home–it will find the most poignant way to remind me just how very small it is.

Oh R__-town, how I’ve loved you. And more than once you’ve seen fit to love me back.

…

We spent a few brief minutes catching up. She’s married now–three or four years, and they’re planning to have kids starting now. As in, I caught her on one of the last blow-out girl’s-nights before she has to stay sober as respectable moms-to-be are expected to. I couldn’t help wondering if she shared my sense that fate was fucking around with us a bit. A glance at the road not taken to test our mettle.

I’ve not been able to forget (nor will I probably ever) an afternoon we spent together so long ago–we got caught in a summer rain and fogged up the hell out of the truck I drove (the smell of mildew lasted for weeks afterward). We’d agreed to have a casual summer fling, and summer was winding down. Things were getting more complicated than I’d meant to allow, and I tried to break it off. She cried what I could only assume were honest, heartbroken tears, and I’ve never forgiven myself. I didn’t realize what was happening, until it was already too late. The yellow dress she wore bled onto my jeans. I knew it would never come out completely, and I didn’t care.

Last weekend, someone told me about an online “dating” site I might want to check out. At first blush, it’s a big improvement over the other stuff I’ve seen, so I spent a bit of time filling out their questionnaire and playing with the search form. Even though I don’t myspace or facebook, there’s some familiar behaviors from those social [sic] networking sites. I make my living with website development, so I’m incapable of containing a certain professional curiosity. My cynical side knows it is all about ad revenue. Pure and simple. People divulge crazy amounts of highly targeted and marketable personal demographic data on those sites. COINTELPRO for the 21st century is probably AdultFriendFinder or somesuch.

I actually ended up chatting with someone a bit during my first login, but it’s mostly the Same. Old. Shit. The people you find attractive probably won’t find you attractive. The people you send clever messages to don’t make intelligent replies (if they ever reply at all). On the off-chance you (and by “you” I mean, as a guy) get an unsolicited “hello” from someone you find even slightly (I’ll put this delicately) emotionally-stable, you quite honestly can’t think of anything to say worth the effort above breathing normally. Squeeze something out like a term paper due the next morning? Don’t bother, won’t make a bit of difference.

Naturally, none of this should come as any surprise. What could you possibly expect? It’s a site for losers to connect with other losers and collectively pretend they are all Very Hot Shit ™. I’d only hoped there was an easy answer that didn’t involve bars, late nights, and extensive liver damage.

I will say it’s probably good practice. Dealing with rejection, making small talk, catching up on the latest slang … life skills those. Gotta stay sharp. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, and all that. Right now, it feels a lot like running a few miles after sitting on the couch for six months–barely doable, and you know you’ll be sore tomorrow.

Of all the possible fears to contend with, the separation more or less complete and the traces of routine beginning to form what-will-be-ruts-soon-enough, most of the nasty what-ifs never materialized, and I’m left with the boring, but very palpable possibility that I will go on being me. By that I mean the unhappy me. The me that doesn’t eat as well as he should or get enough exercise. The me who talks too much at the wrong time and can’t make polite conversation during events where it matters. The me that focuses too much energy on what is crappy and obvious; too little on what is majestic and praiseworthy.

The me I can’t blame on my wife, or my boss, or political establishments past and present. Upon deciding to separate, I made myself all kinds of promises about the lifestyle I’d take up afterwards. It’s too early to call those promises broken, but it’s clear enough that old habits don’t unmake themselves any more than barnacles fall off a boat just because you haul it out of the water.

Last night was the second with the boy spending the night. Everything went great, and I got him settled in bed even easier than the night before. Then, just as I almost always do, I squandered the hours between nine and eleven as though I had nothing at all productive to accomplish. This without television or a decent internet connection (I’m slumming off a neighbor’s wireless until the end of the week). I read no books, wrote no poems, did neither exercise nor housework. I have a todo list as long as my arm with abundant long and short-term goals, at least a third of which I could have been making some small progress on.

There is no witty observation to resolve with, only an acknowledgement of mea culpa.

Sure enough, Saturday was a complete wash. I only engaged in half a dozen verbs for the twenty-four-hour period: mostly sleep, moan, shower, drink (water)… I’m really glad I didn’t go out on a righteous tear on purpose–I might very well be dead.

I suppose it was worth it–there’s no choice but to go on believing so unless I wish to add to my list of regrets, which I don’t. File it under things to do once a decade and move on.

What started as an evening full of art gallery viewings and dinner with a friend (and his new sweetie), turned into whiskey, last call, and me volunteering the after-party. How on earth I ended up reassuring A__ that, no really R__’s old girlfriend had nothing on her, and anything to the contrary was all-in-her-gorgeous-noggin is a mystery to me. Well into the wee hours, I noticed a little red this-art-is-sold sticker on her cheek and wondered how it got there. Many hours later, stumbling to bed, I found a disturbingly similar sticker on my sweater (and the wonder only grew). Oh. Noes.

I knew there were perfectly good reasons I didn’t miss being single, and I’m remembering more all the time.

Saturday given over in payment to the alcohol Gods, cruel bastards that they are, I knew full well I’d be missing my morning appointment with D__ to move the furniture he so graciously offered me. But, I also knew he’d understand, even if the inconvenience meant finding a way to make it up to him (sorry man). I did not, however, think I’d be incapacitated right into the evening when I’d planned to have dinner with K__ and I__. So, I called in the aching midst of my shame and begged off to this evening. The thought of grocery shopping under fluorescent light made the decision a slam dunk, no matter how embarrassing. Even shaven and well rested, I don’t look forward to the experience.

It is 5:50 am, and I’m still wearing shoes.

I just cleared out the impromptu party I didn’t even mean to stir up, and I’ve had the wildest night I’ve seen in a year or three. No real debauchery to report. Too much spent on dinner downtown. Whiskey. But an over-indulgence in un-married couple drama that-was-not-my-own that-may-come-back-to-haunt-me, oh yes. Guilty. And for what? Because it’s the easiest conversation to be made?

I found out one of my first girlfriends from highschool is now out of the closet. Am I allowed to blame all my alcohol and best intentions fueled indescressions on that?

Shit. I had a really great time and saw people I haven’t seen in years (?) but it’s pretty apparent … apologies seem almost certainly in order even at this early hour. I know in my bones that I could find nearly unlimited examples of Bukouski recommending a buttoned lip, but what do I know? Hunter (and his lawyer) would recommend a fast car (and getaway), but it’s no use. This is home. It’s small, but I’m staying.

I swung by the new place one more time on the way home from work yesterday and I had water! This actually came as a huge surprise since there was a note on the door which indicated very strongly that I wouldn’t. I decided to check while waiting for customer service. (“What part of ‘call me if there’s a problem’ can’t you understand?”)

We packed up another double vehicle load (in the pouring rain) and ate pizza with I__ before unloading (in a sprinkle). Then, back to the old house for bedtime stories and to trade out cars (I am seriously burning up the hydrocarbons this week), and right back to ___. I stopped by R__’s place to return the key he so graciously lent me when I decided I was moving out and needed an emergency place to crash. I didn’t end up staying there much, but having the pressure release valve was invaluable. I stayed up pretty late–instead of unpacking and such like I should have, I tore through a novel in one sitting. Not just any novel, but an anonymous one written by a friend during last month’s nanowrimo. (It was appropriate and awesome.)

Today I moved a new dining room set after meeting the delivery guys from the bed place. UPS showed up with the DSL modem while the AT&T guy was installing the line. With a little (more) luck, I might be able to stream a movie tonight! I still need a few bathroom/kitchen essentials (ok, a LOT of essentials), but I’m guessing the move is 3/4 done. Only one major piece of furniture left, and then we’ll all have an opportunity to sit back, relax, and contemplate the mess we’ve made of our lives.

I__ stays with me tonight; I hope it goes OK.

I can has keys!

I met the gas man first thing this morning. Heat, check. Power’s on, but alas, no water. Internet’s probably a week or two out. I’d hoped to spend the night there tonight, and if I hadn’t only recently spent a few days with no hot water at my house, I might even have considered it.

We moved the spare bed after I got off work. It’ll be for the boy when he stays with me. We borrowed her mom’s van and made it a family event–to keep from weirding out the kid. He’s fine, of course. I think it’s just me that finds the whole thing surreal. At first, it was going pretty bad. We were on each other’s nerves before we even got started. But, (after nearly loosing my shit upon realizing that K__ had left her car on empty–again, and I’d have to fill it up myself–again–before meeting her at the new place to unload) things settled down, we set up, drank a couple beers, and had an OK time.

I wolfed down a PBJ at around 9pm (yay, dinner) and read I__ a few bedtime stories. Right about the time I try to put my feet up, K__ “asks” if I want to load the couch into the van tonight (the couch I don’t even want by the way). I should have known before I even answered, “No, not really.” or “It doesn’t matter to me.” It wasn’t really a question in the first place, and just in case I couldn’t tell, she stood there and stared at me like I had “Lazy Ingrate” written on my forehead.

I wonder. If I went and got a tattoo like that on my face, would balance be restored to the universe, and I could be treated like all the other normal, boring, not-much-expected-of-them humans?

Jesus. So we loaded the couch. But why load just a couch? So we loaded a chair and ottoman. Coffee table. Next thing I know boxes are coming down from the attic that I haven’t needed in so long, they’ll likely go straight into my new attic without being opened. This, after a conversation that small, minor things could just filter out as they’re needed–no big deal. Now there’s a vehicle outside packed to the ceiling with stuff. I do have to admit it’ll make tomorrow easier having it halfway done, but it’s the same way I admit Nixon was a pretty good Democrat considering the policy we’ve endured since.