...this very, very unhappy friend.
[Note: I've edited this a bit since I posted it 24 hours ago (so most of you probably got the general idea). It was good to vent and get it all out there, but I'm a very paranoid blogger, so I've removed or changed all potentially identifying information--even the stuff that was already veiled.]
Let's call him Nate.
So, I don't really know Nate very well. We met at a conference a few years ago and have only met in person a handful of times. But we've had a sporadic email correspondence and meet up when he's in town, and he's a pretty fun guy, if given to the occasional melodramatics.
But in the last few months his life has basically become terrible--at least, as he tells it to me. (For I have long suspected that Nate is in the habit of exaggerating things for dramatic effect. He's a good storyteller, and good storytellers, in my experience, seldom hold fast to the truth. Not that I think he's outright lying or anything.) Anyway, here's where my problem comes in:
I don't know what to tell him.
We've been emailing more regularly this summer after being out of touch for most of last year. And he writes these long miserable posts infused with this kind of bitter, self-deprecating humor, and I don't know what to say. I know, it's hard for me, isn't it? But when I write back trying to be supportive and encouraging, he basically tells me that the supportive encouraging things I say aren't true. News about my life only seems to spark more bitterness on his end, and I honestly don't know him well enough to know how to respond. It's starting to feel as though no subject is safe. It's grim. And combined with the fact that he answers my replies almost immediately--well, I've always got a message from him in my inbox, waiting to be answered. (It takes me a while to answer them. But when I wait too long, I feel guilty, because he's so miserable, apparently, and I don't want to add to his unhappiness.)
As I write this, I realize that I'm painting a pretty wretched picture. Of co-dependence, among other things. Am I enabling him? Well, maybe, but an email or two a week hardly seems morally objectionable. Also, in all fairness, he's not as bad as I've made him out to be. He's actually a very funny, bright person, even if his humor (in the best of times) is generally at his own expense. But I dunno...I'm feeling a bit sketched out by the whole thing, and I sort of dread answering his emails. At the same time, it costs me so little to maintain this tiny shred of support that I'm offering him. So I'm torn between wondering what I can do to cheer him up (or at least not make things worse) and wishing that his problems would go away for my own sake, which isn't a very pleasant feeling.
He's going to be in town right before I move, so I've promised to see him at least once then. Which will be fine, because I'm moving away right after that, so it's not like we can start up some kind of pattern. Also I think that I'm pretty good at keeping people at arm's length (whether I want to or not, unfortunately), so I'm not terribly worried about getting too sucked in (witness my 5-day response email response time!). I just feel kind of crummy about the whole situation, and that ain't good.
Showing posts with label old friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label old friends. Show all posts
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Regression
On Friday afternoon, the Class of '97 seemed a respectable lot. A handful of Ph.D.s and advanced ABDs, some lawyers, several MBAs doing arts administration and nonprofit organization, public servants of various stripes, and a surprisingly large number of people working at animation studios. Nearly everyone seems to live in Brooklyn, DC, and San Francisco--nice, grownup cities where they presumably pay rent and do all those usual adult things. And evidently the early 30s are not only the age of perfection, but the age of reproduction, as well: babies were EVERYWHERE. Their presence is partly attributable, I think, to my college's alumni's habit of intermarriage; entire family units were plainly in evidence.
In the beginning, we seemed civilized. Ordinary. Even dull. And yet, by Sunday afternoon, the dorm where we were all housed was--there is no other word for it--trashed.
Some of this, such as the cracker crumbs embedded in the hall carpet, may have actually been due to the presence of babies. But overwhelmingly the trashing was the result of plainly regressive behavior on the part of the reunion attendees. The floor of the lounge was covered--covered--in chocolate sprinkles and spilled beer. Coffee tables were scarred by rather inept efforts at uncapping beer bottles without benefit of an opener. Folding tables sloped to the floor, their legs buckled underneath them. Furniture had been dragged outside and left there. Fireworks of sketchy provenance had been fired into the outer walls of the building (in all fairness, I should say that they weren't actually aimed at the building; they just went--directly and with force--in that direction). At one point late on Saturday night, the cushions from all of the many sofas in the lobby were gathered and made into an enormous pile; one couch, denuded, was drawn up to the edge of the pile and used as a diving board. I'm sure that some of its springs were broken--surprisingly, no necks were--and only some of the cushions made it back onto the (wrong) sofas. The entrance to my hall had developed a stench so awful that one had to hold one's breath when passing through it. Other, older reunions had been repeatedly raided for beer, and empty bottles littered every public area. Clouds of marijuana smoke drifted across the quad. And one of the many old campus bands reconvened for a performance of their "hit single," whose name I don't know but whose chorus is "Fuck you, fuck me, fuck everybody; you suck, you suck, you suck big time."
What happened?
Perhaps it was the heady combination of escape from adulthood (we didn't have to clean up our own messes) with escape from studenthood (we couldn't be punished for anything that we did). Our age was showing, though. Even the childless had a hard time making it through the days without a nap, and I found that sleeping from 4am-12pm really doesn't work for me anymore.
Fatigue notwithstanding, I had a great time. I roomed with a really good friend that I'd been out of touch with for a while, and, in the manner of actual roommates, we spent pretty much all weekend together. My college, a small-town SLAC, generates a strong sense of loyalty and community, so going back there was--for everyone, I expect--a real mixture of pleasure and nostalgia. So much is the same: the smell of the mailroom, for example, took me right back to Orientation week; the steel drum band still wears ridiculous costumes and gets the whole campus grooving; and the comedy improv troupe doesn't make any more sense than it did in the mid-90s.
But a reunion is not a real recapturing, and there was an undeniable difference between my memory of college and this brief reconstruction thereof. Because we're not the same, despite the weekend's shenanigans. There were moments when I felt kind of sad, intensely aware that that time in my life--a time which I remember with intense fondness, when I was often very happy--is absolutely over. And yet, I know that I couldn't go back to it; I--the I that I am now--could never have that experience again. Would I want to? If I'm honest with myself, I know that no, I wouldn't. I like the self that I was in college, but the self that I am now is, in many ways, so much better off--more confident, more wisely restrained (most of the time), less desperately anxious over every little drama--and the thought of having to relearn everything that I've gathered in the last 10 years is, frankly, exhausting.
Even so, it was undeniably fun to catch a few glimpses of the past. And I found myself reassured by the fact that the students look more or less the same as they did when I was there. A friend of mine, spotting a few of them crossing campus, said, "That's what I came here to see. A big-ass beard, a tee-shirt that doesn't make any sense, and totally ironic light-up sneakers." It's good to know they're still out there.
In the beginning, we seemed civilized. Ordinary. Even dull. And yet, by Sunday afternoon, the dorm where we were all housed was--there is no other word for it--trashed.
Some of this, such as the cracker crumbs embedded in the hall carpet, may have actually been due to the presence of babies. But overwhelmingly the trashing was the result of plainly regressive behavior on the part of the reunion attendees. The floor of the lounge was covered--covered--in chocolate sprinkles and spilled beer. Coffee tables were scarred by rather inept efforts at uncapping beer bottles without benefit of an opener. Folding tables sloped to the floor, their legs buckled underneath them. Furniture had been dragged outside and left there. Fireworks of sketchy provenance had been fired into the outer walls of the building (in all fairness, I should say that they weren't actually aimed at the building; they just went--directly and with force--in that direction). At one point late on Saturday night, the cushions from all of the many sofas in the lobby were gathered and made into an enormous pile; one couch, denuded, was drawn up to the edge of the pile and used as a diving board. I'm sure that some of its springs were broken--surprisingly, no necks were--and only some of the cushions made it back onto the (wrong) sofas. The entrance to my hall had developed a stench so awful that one had to hold one's breath when passing through it. Other, older reunions had been repeatedly raided for beer, and empty bottles littered every public area. Clouds of marijuana smoke drifted across the quad. And one of the many old campus bands reconvened for a performance of their "hit single," whose name I don't know but whose chorus is "Fuck you, fuck me, fuck everybody; you suck, you suck, you suck big time."
What happened?
Perhaps it was the heady combination of escape from adulthood (we didn't have to clean up our own messes) with escape from studenthood (we couldn't be punished for anything that we did). Our age was showing, though. Even the childless had a hard time making it through the days without a nap, and I found that sleeping from 4am-12pm really doesn't work for me anymore.
Fatigue notwithstanding, I had a great time. I roomed with a really good friend that I'd been out of touch with for a while, and, in the manner of actual roommates, we spent pretty much all weekend together. My college, a small-town SLAC, generates a strong sense of loyalty and community, so going back there was--for everyone, I expect--a real mixture of pleasure and nostalgia. So much is the same: the smell of the mailroom, for example, took me right back to Orientation week; the steel drum band still wears ridiculous costumes and gets the whole campus grooving; and the comedy improv troupe doesn't make any more sense than it did in the mid-90s.
But a reunion is not a real recapturing, and there was an undeniable difference between my memory of college and this brief reconstruction thereof. Because we're not the same, despite the weekend's shenanigans. There were moments when I felt kind of sad, intensely aware that that time in my life--a time which I remember with intense fondness, when I was often very happy--is absolutely over. And yet, I know that I couldn't go back to it; I--the I that I am now--could never have that experience again. Would I want to? If I'm honest with myself, I know that no, I wouldn't. I like the self that I was in college, but the self that I am now is, in many ways, so much better off--more confident, more wisely restrained (most of the time), less desperately anxious over every little drama--and the thought of having to relearn everything that I've gathered in the last 10 years is, frankly, exhausting.
Even so, it was undeniably fun to catch a few glimpses of the past. And I found myself reassured by the fact that the students look more or less the same as they did when I was there. A friend of mine, spotting a few of them crossing campus, said, "That's what I came here to see. A big-ass beard, a tee-shirt that doesn't make any sense, and totally ironic light-up sneakers." It's good to know they're still out there.
Monday, May 14, 2007
My Dinner with M
I just had a really nice dinner with my friend M. M and I have been friends since high school; she now works in some kind of finance-related field and makes enormous amounts of money, all of which she's about to sink into her Very First Home-Ownership Experience. Through no fault of her own, dinner with M always makes me feel like the kid in our relationship; for example, at the restaurant we went to tonight (her choice), I glanced at the wine list and then passed it to her.
"What do you like?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "It's all a little rich for my blood." (The cheapest glass was $9, the cheapest bottle $40.)
She looked it over. "I think they raised the prices," she said. "I'm pretty sure the bottle I usually get was $35. Oh well; we'll get a bottle, and I'm paying for it."
Then I pretty much followed her recommendation for dinner (by default--it was the only vegetarian option), and let her pick out the appetizers. And more or less order for both of us. And then when the check came, she refused to take more than $20 from me. I hope this doesn't sound critical here, because it was all done in a very civil and not-condescending way; essentially, she knows I'm a Poor Student, and is happy to share her income. Also we only see each other every four or five months.
And, of course, the advantage to being The Kid is that Mom/Dad buys you a nice dinner. So.
But anyway, I told her about my job, kind of expecting/fearing that she'd be sympathetic, rather than congratulatory. Not that I'm averse to a little sympathy. But her career is so eminently practical; I worried that she'd say something about the insanity of academia and how soon can I get a job in a real city. She's one of the only people I know--perhaps the only person--who has, historically, teased me. A lot. I don't much like to be teased, but for some reason M is allowed to demand to know why I'm wearing such-and-such an outfit or what on earth did I ever see in such-and-such a boyfriend (whom, more often than not, she'd never met). She's a strong personality. We didn't agree on much in high school--I was goth, she was Catholic; I was the liberal vegetarian, she was the meat-eating Republican (that's changed, actually; Bush has made M into a...well, if not a Democrat, than at least a moderate! Huzzah!). Maybe one of the things I liked about her was the fact that she felt so free to disagree with me, as annoying as that could be, at times.
And yet! She wasn't sarcastic or even sympathetic. She was flat-out congratulatory. And interested in hearing about the classes I'd be teaching. And just generally all-around supportive. I hadn't expected her to be mean or anything, but I guess--and this is probably just my own issue--I was a little bit prepared to be defensive. It's so nice when people surprise you in a good way, like this.
She also enlisted her car service to drive us both home, which meant that I accidentally left my Signif.Oth. to make his way home alone. Which he's perfectly capable of doing, of course, but now it's almost 11 and I'm still waiting for him to get back.
"What do you like?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "It's all a little rich for my blood." (The cheapest glass was $9, the cheapest bottle $40.)
She looked it over. "I think they raised the prices," she said. "I'm pretty sure the bottle I usually get was $35. Oh well; we'll get a bottle, and I'm paying for it."
Then I pretty much followed her recommendation for dinner (by default--it was the only vegetarian option), and let her pick out the appetizers. And more or less order for both of us. And then when the check came, she refused to take more than $20 from me. I hope this doesn't sound critical here, because it was all done in a very civil and not-condescending way; essentially, she knows I'm a Poor Student, and is happy to share her income. Also we only see each other every four or five months.
And, of course, the advantage to being The Kid is that Mom/Dad buys you a nice dinner. So.
But anyway, I told her about my job, kind of expecting/fearing that she'd be sympathetic, rather than congratulatory. Not that I'm averse to a little sympathy. But her career is so eminently practical; I worried that she'd say something about the insanity of academia and how soon can I get a job in a real city. She's one of the only people I know--perhaps the only person--who has, historically, teased me. A lot. I don't much like to be teased, but for some reason M is allowed to demand to know why I'm wearing such-and-such an outfit or what on earth did I ever see in such-and-such a boyfriend (whom, more often than not, she'd never met). She's a strong personality. We didn't agree on much in high school--I was goth, she was Catholic; I was the liberal vegetarian, she was the meat-eating Republican (that's changed, actually; Bush has made M into a...well, if not a Democrat, than at least a moderate! Huzzah!). Maybe one of the things I liked about her was the fact that she felt so free to disagree with me, as annoying as that could be, at times.
And yet! She wasn't sarcastic or even sympathetic. She was flat-out congratulatory. And interested in hearing about the classes I'd be teaching. And just generally all-around supportive. I hadn't expected her to be mean or anything, but I guess--and this is probably just my own issue--I was a little bit prepared to be defensive. It's so nice when people surprise you in a good way, like this.
She also enlisted her car service to drive us both home, which meant that I accidentally left my Signif.Oth. to make his way home alone. Which he's perfectly capable of doing, of course, but now it's almost 11 and I'm still waiting for him to get back.
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