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My first long-term relationship was in college. D and I spent almost three years together, three years that included all of the great things that come with college; formals, naked sleepovers and youth bliss, as well as all of the crap; a crazy stalker, teen angst and bad behavior brought on by immaturity.
Then our 20s came along.
And my theme this week in almost everything I do is how we don’t know shit when we’re in our 20s.
I moved east and treated D badly.
She moved west and tells me now that she treated other people badly.
Our 20s passed and then in our 30s we reconnected at an odd time. I was getting divorced, she was getting married.
We saw each other for the first time in almost 10 years in New York, less than two months after 9/11.
Immediately upon seeing her, I was reminded of everything good about our relationship, all of the reasons I wanted to be with her and only her in college.
At a time when my marriage was over and when the world was a new place of terror, I felt that feeling of being safe and loved and comforted, all before she ever opened her mouth.
Since that day I have sought her out time and time again when I need that feeling, and I am a lucky person that she has always been there for me.
This week we have spoken several times as I try to bounce back from the end of the relationship with 25. I get off the phone and feel safe, loved and comforted.
Perhaps it was because we spent emotionally-formative years so intimately, perhaps it’s just that special chemistry that comes along so rarely. Actually I don’t know that I care why it is, I only care that it is.
She told me tonight that she is who she is now because of the way our 20s shook out. My poor behavior led her to the other side of the country, led her to her husband and to her career. It all also led me to where I am, which during any other week I would tell you is a great place.
I still get a tightness in my chest when I think of certain ways I acted 15 years ago. She tells me it had to be that way for things to now be this way.
Her husband is a wonderful man. There are few men out there who would put up with a wife’s college boyfriend, let alone invite him into their home and become his friend. I am proud to say that the husband is my friend. When I see the two of them together and see their happiness now, and know that my behavior sent her to the place where they met, I realize she is right, it had to be that way for it to be this way.
I am so glad it is this way.
A couple of times over the past two weeks I’ve mentioned the woman with whom I’m smitten. Henceforth, I shall refer to her as WWWIS.
I have hesitated to say much about her, because I really seem to like her but I’m afraid that if I put it out there I’ll jinx it. Also because I haven’t really gotten to the point of putting everything “out there.”
But for the love of all things good, I have to write about what could be the perfect dating day.
We slept in a bit (yes, we’re to the point of sleeping in together). Once we got vertical, we went out to brunch and along the way grabbed the Times. WWWIS has never done the Sunday puzzle, so we started it together, while eating at a neighborhood joint.
After filling ourselves with great Sunday brunch food, we went to the park, where we worked on the puzzle a little more.
Then we walked and walked around town before grabbing a movie. We watched Borat together and laughed our asses off. We were hungry, and went to another neighborhood eatery, had pizza and filled in a few more squares.
Finally, we had to go our separate ways for the day.
Look, I know this may seem a little dull on paper. It wasn’t dull to live through. It was just delightful.
And what am I supposed to think when one of the puzzle clues called for a 4-letter word for “Totally Nuts”
Gaga!
Yes, I think I am.
Nice job Melissavina. Lisa, you disappoint me.
1) I have visited 44 states. Many of them were part of a great idea that my mom and her friend devised. It was about seeing the cheesy tourist traps, true cultural sites and eating regional food. Yes we were camping, but we didn’t roast weenies over a fire. Among my favorite meals: fresh shrimp just pulled out of the Gulf of Mexico, an amazing fish with a fluorescent green color caught off of northern California, and lobster in Maine. There was one disaster, the clam chowder from a roadside stand. We were sick in a way you don’t want to be when you’re sleeping in a tent in the middle of the woods.
2) I am a direct descendant of Samuel Adams, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, perhaps known best for the beer that now bears his name. In 1975, People did an article on descendants and included a picture of my mother and me taken in front of Independence Hall. The caption was wrong though. It said I was 10, I was four. Peter Sellers is on the cover.
3) I do have a gun.
4) Jazz… I have tried to like it, I really have. I don’t. Music snobs have said it’s because I don’t understand it. Whatever. Maybe I am a moron, but I don’t like it, and I’m never ever going to try to play it on my guitar. What a waste of time, effort, and of the little ability I have.
5) We were at her grandparents after her prom. Both of our bedrooms were in the basement… that’s just an invitation for 16 year olds. But her grandfather walked down to check on us. By the time he made it down the stars, she had disappeared from the bed in record time. He looked at me and said “Oh John, you’re up.” Mmm hmmm.
6) We were trying to find an American air base in the middle of the Kuwaiti desert, right after the war began. Somehow, we thought it was a good idea to leave the road and drive through the desert, on the sand. It was like a scene out of a Bob Hope/Bing Crosby “Road to Kuwait” movie. After a half hour of seeing nothing in any direction, we finally spotted a building off in the distance. By the time we got there, the building was surrounded by Kuwaiti soldiers, bearing machine guns, wondering how we found the place and why we were there. They declined my request for photos.
7) I really am a very good cook!
My friend Lemon Gloria “tagged” me this weekend. It came after she was tagged and had to write six truths and one untruth about herself. In addition to having the honor of being tagged, I also had the brains to pick out her lie.
She can’t hold a tune. I could tell just by looking at her. I’m guessing that she is the really fun woman who can’t wait to take the stage at karaoke, knowing that her version of “Living On A Prayer” will send people running through the streets for ear protection.
So now about me. Six truths one untruth:
1) I have visited 44 American states. As I child, my mother and I would go camping with her best friend and children. We visited a different region of the country each summer. The only states I haven’t been in are Alaska, Hawaii, North Dakota, Minnesota, Nebraska and Kansas.
2) I was once in People Magazine. I was 6 at the time, and one of the subjects of an article that included a photo of me.
3) While I am a liberal pretty much across the board, I do own a gun and enjoy shooting as a hobby. Perhaps it’s the boy part of me, or maybe it’s from living in Ohio for 5 years, but even though it goes against my general politics, it’s a passtime I like.
4) I like all genres of music, but jazz may be my favorite. I love listening to it and I’m trying to learn some jazz riffs on my guitar.
5) The first time I ever “went all the way,” we were interupted when her grandfather walked in the room. She moved so fast, he never knew what was going on.
6) I once got lost while driving in a middle eastern desert. When we finally found people, they were carrying machine guns and not at all happy to see us.
7) I am a very good cook.
So now, I’m supposed to “tag” someone else. But since I’m new to this and don’t really know anyone else, other than the woman who tagged me, I’m going to wait a bit before passing on the honor.
Can I do that?
Defer the tag?
There’s good news and there’s bad news.
The good news is that my workouts are going very well. Only on the very first day did I see the specter of death looking over my shoulder. He was pointing his bony finger at me as I did squat thrusts while holding these torturous weights called kettle bells. I managed to avoid the scythe that day, and he hasn’t returned.
I am very pleased with the project.
On the other hand, I just can’t stop eating.
My stomach is a bottomless pit. There is no end to my gluttony.
Tonight, there is a box of Girl Scout Thin Mints here at work. I am the only person who knows where it is and it really isn’t mine to share, but it is mine to dip into. I could eat the entire box. I won’t because someone else ate one sleeve already, so that only leaves 720 calories for me.
I could do it.
Now, I had a delightful salad for dinner, so that’s not going to kill me. But the rest of those cookies just might.
And then there’s the risk of something else sweet coming into the newsroom.
I’ll eat it! Nothing can stop me. If it’s sweet, I want it and I will have it!
Forget heroin, crack, crystal-meth. I’m an addict. An addict of sweet chocolaty goodness.
I need help.
Tomorrow I return to the gym and to the trainer who has proven he can make me throw up.
I spent some of the fall making a half-assed effort at working out and trying to get my 36-year-old body back to its 17-year-old glory (they say you should set realistic goals). Then I traveled out of the country for a couple of weeks, and had one excuse after another for falling off the workout wagon.
Back in my glory days, I was a slim 6’1”, played three varsity sports, and had legs that were so skinny even the football coach was afraid they might snap off.
I was also 50, yes 50 pounds lighter. I slipped so easily into 32 inch wastebands, I think I had cheekbones, my butt stopped the ladies in their tracks (ok, that part I always imagined)
Now, well, it’s a different story. I don’t have a stomach that hangs out. I’m just big. All around big.
And part of my unhappiness is that my mental image of myself is still that of a strapping young teen, so mirrors and photos of 36-year-old John make me very unhappy.
In the past I have tried and failed at operation slimdown.
Perhaps, because I’m going a little more public with it now, I might have more motivation to stick with it.
As if an ass that stops the ladies dead in their track isn’t enough.
Wish me luck.
I was invited to three different Superbowl parties and one “hang out with a couple of friends” event. I was pleased to have been on that many guest lists, partly because I was able to use one event as a reason not to go to another, when in fact, I stayed at home.
My dad thinks I went out with my friend Mike. Mike thinks I was at the Kauffman party, the Kauffmans think I was with my dad.
It worked out well, because I had chores to catch up on, and my own new HDTV.
It also led to one of the great discoveries of our time.
Sick of waiting in lines at the supermarket? Do your shopping during the Superbowl!
During the middle of the second quarter I dashed off to the Super Fresh. I needed to do one of those semi-annual massive shopping trips, and I was willing to miss Prince. I figured, even if his breast popped out, I’d be able to see it on youtube.
Timing is everything, and I nailed it. My car has Sirius radio, so I listened to the game as I drove and got to the store just as halftime was beginning.
My first fear was that Super Fresh was closed.
No, it wasn’t, there just weren’t any customers, except for me.
Not one little old lady trying to reach soup from the top shelf, no one pretending to know whether a mellon was ripe, no clean-ups on aisle 5, no children crying because they couldn’t have Cocoa Puffs.
I could leave my cart blocking the dairy section and feel no guilt, I could even throw long passes from the bread department into my cart, with more accuracy than Rex Grossman.
When I was finished gathering, my cart was overflowing.
So I did what everyone has always wanted to do with a full cart… I went through the express lane. It was likely the first time that register has had a $192.00 purchase.
All four of the store employees came to help. One ran my items over the scanner, one pushed them down the lane, two others bagged for me.
I was out just as Chicago kicked off to begin the second half.
It was just Super!
This was cholesterol day.
Apparently, I have inherited my father’s and his father’s cholesterol problems.
In fact, I’m not sure that we have blood in our arteries any more. My numbers make it sound like I have something more akin to the sludge that lines the drain of a utility room sink.
The last time I got it checked my doctor was so freaked out he called me instantly. I think he was surprised that I was alive to answer the phone.
Three months and one big bottle of Lipitor later I was back at the lab for another test.
If the cholesterol doesn’t kill me, the blood tests probably will, and that is also my father’s fault.
When I was about 6 years old, I was visiting my pediatrician for my annual check-up. His name was Doctor Hertz (yes, sounds like hurts). It came time for the old TB Tine test. That involved the thing that looked like a corncob holder that they jabbed in the arms of young children. When the children screamed, the TB spores would fly out of their lungs.
I think that’s how it worked.
Anyway, I wanted no part of it.
“It’s no big deal,” Dr. Hertz declared. “Look, I’ll give one to your father first.”
My dad did that wide-eyed, clenched-jaw subtle head shake that he thought the doctor would see but I’d miss. It was the other way around.
Dr. Hertz rolled up my father’s sleeve, and my old man lost all of the color in his face. Once the probe hit his arm, he made a groaning noise that sounded like a snoring hippo. His eyes rolled back and he went face down on the floor.
I was immediately whisked out of the room as the doctor called a code yellow-belly.
The next part I didn’t see, but heard. As my father began to come to, he had a flashback to a college boxing match and thought he was getting up from the mat to go another round with his opponent. Only in this case his opponents were young nursing students.
I think he hit a couple of them.
Like every 6-year-old, I thought my dad was indestructible. Whatever was in these needles dropped him faster than a tranquilizer dart brings a black bear out of a suburban tree.
For all anyone knows, I may have tuberculosis now. No one will ever be able to confirm it, because they’re never going to jab me with that thing.
The needle for the cholesterol blood test is no better, but I haven’t found a way to get around it.
Instead, I sit there with my free hand over my eyes, in a cold sweat, and I’ve been told I talk gibberish.
When it’s over, and I’ve taken a nap to recover, I strut around, pointing at my band-aid, showing off like the hero I am.
I survived another one.
I’ll get the test results Monday.
I had one of those days today, where I just couldn’t get out of bed. It wasn’t a depressed, hide under the covers, stay in the darkness kind of thing. I was just really tired.
So tired that I gathered up what little strength I had and called out sick.
Sleeping sickness is a disease. I needed to rule it out as the cause of my lethargy.
I made the most of my day. I took a load of whites down to the washing machine. Then I got back into bed. That’s where I stayed until late afternoon.
Again, I wasn’t down or blue, just really tired.
Once I hauled my lazy ass out of bed around 5:00, I made a long list of chores to do. I always feel great guilt when I call out of work, so to alleviate the feeling I like to try to be productive.
Somehow, my apartment is more of a mess now than when I started Operation Clean The Pit.
I threw out bags of stuff, have a box of clothes ready for the Salvation Army, but somehow it still looks like a bomb went off.
That’s all for now. It’s late. I have to go to bed.
A darling friend of mine returned to town last night. She is my social circle’s Paris Hilton, except we love her, she has a job, and contributes to society. Yet, she’s still very Paris-ish.
In the course of conversation she talked about how her husband was in a quandary because he’d just been offered 87-million-dollars for the business he founded 13 years ago.
Actually, there was no quandary. He wasn’t interested in selling. He’s in his late 30’s, what would he do for the rest of his life if he sold the company?
Huh?
I’m not saying that money buys happiness, I do think it can buy plenty of things to keep you busy for the next 30 years or so.
But he likes his job!
So do I… but with 87-million-dollars I’ll never set foot in the place again. For 87-million I’ll forget I ever worked there. People will ask me, when they visit me at my Parisian apartment, what I did before I was rich.
“I don’t know.”
Part of my post-87-million-dollar life would include work as President and Supreme Commander of my philanthropic organization. The John Club will send under privileged kids to college and seek better treatment and a cure for Alzheimer’s. I’ll also be like that guy who used to write the column in the paper, and read letters from people who want money, and if there’s something about their letter that I like, I’ll send them a check.
(Don’t send your requests just yet… my tax refund isn’t enough to help anyone)
I actually have an idea for an internet venture. I don’t think it’s an 87-million dollar idea, but it might be worth something. Until last night I didn’t have a clue what to do with the idea, but listening to Paris talk about her husband, whom I do like a lot, I realized he might be about to help me.
I’m sure he gets all sorts of stupid ideas sent to him… but mine isn’t stupid.
And I’m not worried about him ripping me off.
If he’s willing to blow off 87-million, because he likes what he does, I don’t think he’s going to steal my 50 cent idea.
If the name of this blog becomes The John Club, he helped me score. Then you can start sending me your wishes.
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