suburban absurdities.

My friend Mike is a part-time suburban blogger and full-time poet and cheeseburger enthusiast (who gets drunk with me regularly). I asked him to write about his experience with love and he, reluctantly, agreed.

26 Going on 17 by Mike Adams

Waiting patiently for the westbound 150 on Ventura Blvd, a bus that I’ve taken hundreds of times, a bus that I affectionately refer to as my “mobile office”, even though it’s more like a “mobile trashcan for the under-the-table worker”. I get things done on that bus. I make moves on that bus. I’m an OB/GYN on that bus. I see my best thoughts crowning on that bus. I reach in and pull them out, slapping their bottoms, making them take their first breaths, on that bus. Today will be no different. I’ve begun writing. As for what it turns out to be: WHO CARES I’M BRINGING ANOTHER “LIFE” INTO THIS BRUTAL WORLD

Two job interviews in three days – landing one, waiting to hear about another – and I feel great. Not because of the prospects of full-time employment, not because of the possibility of steady income and the capability to finally have the experiences I’ve so earnestly yearned for, but because of the simple facts that a job fosters responsibility, and responsibility breeds character, and character makes a man, and I so desperately covet the maturity and comprehension of a grown-up, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve had it nurturing inside, buried under mountains of disrespect and rivers of self- doubt, lost in the forest of inability to comprehend my potential. And now, at 26 going on 17, I am finally ready.

It takes a catalyst for people to come to the realization they need to grow beyond their sheltered, provisional world and join society in a meaningful, prosperous way. It’s different for everyone. To some, it’s a death; others, a birth; a majority of individuals can claim divorce; a select few go to jail; for a small portion, it’s a miracle, genuine and true. Me, it was tears, they weren’t even mine, and it’s taken me three years to even recognize.

I should’ve been a boxer, despite my average stature. My reach is apparently quite long. I can swing for miles and miles and miles. I landed one right on the kisser from a continent away. I didn’t even know I swung, but with every answer came another haymaker.

“Who is she? What’s her name?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I muttered at best.

“Just tell me her name.”
“No. It’s not important.”

We went another three and a half rounds before the cutman in my head threw in the towel. I coulda been a contender. Instead, I just broke her heart, maybe a capillary in her eye from all the tears; the tears I hear crawling away from her mascara’d eyelashes – a trail of oils, pigments, waxes, preservatives, dyes, pain, remorse, judgment, anger, nausea, lust, all tracking across her painted face – making a topographic map of sadness and regret and longing as she walked out the door of that Sherman Oaks coffee shop.

She never wore makeup, except for today. How was I supposed to know she’d get all dolled up? Maybe she was born with it? I haven’t seen her in months. She left the country for the promise of education and experience and tropical Atlantic beaches. She put her trust in me and I swallowed it like double bacon cheeseburger: Whole.

But that’s what happens. They always leave me. And I end up the bad guy. I get the crushing weight of remorse for being a man. I get the short end of the stick because I crave experiences that involve another person, and when the person you expect to share those experiences with leaves yr side, how the fuck are you supposed to go on with them alone? You can’t.

I cry. I can admit that. While my emotions are not generally visible on my sleeve, get my temperature to rise, and they come though like a nineties Hypercolor T-shirt. I’ve been known to tear up during a radio broadcast of a sporting event or the latest This American Life or watching a screener of The Help in a beautiful woman’s bedroom. I’m comfortable with my emotions. But emotions mean NOTHING if you can’t share them. You can’t share them with someone you “love” when they aren’t near you. Surprise! We have the common theme of my broken relationships.

Starting with my first “love”, my high school sweetheart, the multi prestigious-award winning actress who never put out, until she was married, married to the next guy she dated, probly dated while we dated, WHATEVER. She gave great head. Her mother resented me for not going directly to a prestigious university after high school. Her mother resented me for playing a part in her daughter’s decision in going to a local private university (on a hefty scholarship) instead of (paying full tuition) at the best public university on the West Coast. WHATEVER. We move on, or at least try to. She now owns a penthouse overlooking Central Park. I now share a room with my 24-year old sister in my grandfather’s house.

Ending with my last, the atypical manic pixie, leaving me for academia, while setting me up for mistake after mistake – quitting my job, moving home, “looking” for “work”, freeloading – disaster betwixt disaster, setback upon setback; all for what, some fictional “feeling” that could never come to fruition due to selfish reasons and vocational location impossibilities. She asked me to be a placeholder. I am not a placeholder. It was extremely selfish, and while I’ve been known to be unsettlingly selfish at times, I respect limits. Pushing them is fine, occasionally fun. Crossing them is unacceptable. If only I was man enough to say that then. If only…

“If only” gets you so far until you begin to lose control, fall apart. I’ve been told (rather recently) I have trouble moving on, letting go; I keep things in; I have walls up. It took about 0.4 seconds before that idea actually registered with me. It is the most correct observation anyone’s ever had of me since Ms. Gregorio – my blonde, Lane Bryant model of an English teacher – in senior year of high school.

“I’m going to pass you not on your participation in class, but on your merits out of class, and the potential I see.”

I’m pretty sure she was hitting on me, but I was 16, oblivious to schoolwork and authority, unable to process compliments and completely ignorant to the wiles of a woman. She gave me a C I didn’t deserve. I haven’t really grown up since then. I’m still satisfied with Cs, in every aspect of life. I’m still relatively clueless with women.

Here’s a secret ladies, the good ones are. From the ones that play the Field, to the ones that bet “Don’t Pass”, to the ones that take maximum odds on the point, to the ones that only bet heavy on their Hard Eight to bring home the winnings. They’re all, in some small way, confused. They don’t truly understand the rules of the game, the techniques to win, and win big. That’s why I don’t like to play games. Sure they’re fun and they pay out, but I’d rather make a wager on a sporting event or play hours of poker well beyond my limited means. That’s what I excel at. I’m a numbers guy, a decent handicapper. I’ve got a solid poker face. But this diatribe isn’t about my recovering gambling addiction. It’s about relationships; mine. I’m pretty sure…

NEW SHOOTER, COMING OUT

Why have I’ve been left behind in every relationship I’ve been in? Because that’s how they’ve been set up. Subconsciously, I’ve known that. Consciously, I’ve failed to admit it.

I can remember being asked by a friend of my in his kitchen at a party, sans girlfriend, what was I see for the course of my (at the time) current relationship, as she had just started planning her new life somewhere that wasn’t Los Angeles. I answered in vagaries as I normally do; avoiding the question like the stonemason I trained myself to be.

“We’re just taking it as it is.”

What a lazy answer.

I’m sorry, Tony. I should’ve given you more respect. I should have given myself more respect. I should have given her more respect. She should have given me more respect, the respect I deserved. We should have given our relationship more respect. We both are smart. We both had feelings for one another beyond basic pleasantries. We both knew it was a bad idea to keep the facade of our relationship raised. We both were too scared to admit it. We both were selfish. It wasn’t okay. But hindsight is whatever the cliché says it is, and there’s nothing to be done now but reminisce, right?

If I had the opportunity to go to Brazil or star in a sitcom or live my academic dream, at a youthful age, I’d probly take it every time, even if I was in a relationship. Why? There comes a point where you give up on dreams. It’s inevitable. Dreams are fucking selfish. And life shifts to a thought process where you begin to dream, not only about, but with and for, someone else. The dreams of one become the dream of two, or seven if you live in Utah.

Joking aside, I’ve finally realized you can’t hold anyone responsible for the decisions you ultimately make for yr own life. People are inherently selfish, to a point. Get over it. Move on. I’ve also grasped the concept of not holding someone left behind in a relationship responsible for the decisions they make while treading water in their own life, without their other. It’s rude and mean and downright disgusting to ask someone to uphold a promise of devotion and loyalty when the asker is making a completely selfish decision of their own. It’s taken me years to realize this. I’ve made the same mistake over and over, with girl after girl. But I’m ready to move on. I’m happy. I’m in love. No quotation marks. No sarcasm. Just honest emotions and mutual respect.

It’s a totally freeing sensation to know that even though I made (what I thought at the time were) drastic mistakes in my relationships, the relationships themselves were set up in a fashion allowing, nay, encouraging me to make these mistakes. Dating someone who will eventually leave, dating someone who has an attainable goal set, one without you, was the downfall of my twenties, the downfall of my youth, the downfall of my ascension to adulthood. It’s why I’ve lived at home for far too long. It’s why I can get by without a real job or real responsibilities. It’s why I’ve required security and coddling to get by. It’s why I’ve never really grown up.

It’s time to move on. They all have.