Obama quote from Roanoke in context ...

The Obama quote in context ...

Another entry ...

“Stop wallowing.”

“Hmmmmm?”

“I said, ‘Stop wallowing.’”

“What do you mean?”

“You are wallowing. You are bemoaning your sorry state and steeping in your misery. You are basting in your ennui. You are marinating in depression.

“Stop wallowing.”

She was right, of course. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have what to be depressed about. It’s just that she wanted me to stop letting it define me. It probably would have helped if she wasn’t standing in the doorway with a suitcase filled with the ephemera of a relationship.

A toothbrush. A sweatshirt from the Jersey shore. A pair of water shoes we bought when we thought we might take up kayaking, a pair of flannel pajamas, a robe, a suit. The cubic zirconium earrings I gave her on our three-quarters a’versary. Most of the contents of the bottom drawer of my dresser, which had been turned over for her use.

“You should write.”

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘You should write.”

“Write what?”

“Write whatever. You are a good writer. You know how to evoke emotion. You can turn a phrase. The world is crashing in and you are falling apart and you should write about it. Lord knows there are plenty of you out there. Write what they need to read.”

“They? Which they?” It was an old joke. The nonspecific ‘they’ that were always doing things we were waiting to be completed. Have they plowed the streets yet? Have they delivered the mail? Have they scored? Are they here? Somewhere a they was always doing something and we were waiting. Sounds like a Beckett absurdist play.

“I have to go.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I have to do this. Alone.”

“No, you don’t. You say you like being alone. You think you like being alone, but you don’t. I’ll bet you’re already looking for someone new. You just don’t want to do it with me.”

I looked away. The truth is, I have no armor and less pretense. I have little ability to keep what I am thinking from coming out of my mouth and less skill at hiding my feelings. I come from a long line of depressives with poor emotional control. It’s a wonder we aren’t alcoholics, though I am beginning to think I might try that just for a change of pace. It has to beat feeling like this.

No, actually, I can’t. The teenagers will get in to the booze and then there is none for me. The last thing I need is for some parent to complain to the cops that I let the kids get to my liquor. Which is why I have none in the house. Even when I want a drink, like now.

“I have to go,” she said again, her hand on the storm door, the heavy steel inner door open against the wall. I narrowed my eyes and let her outline shimmer before me. I was remembering our first kiss, which is a silly thing to remember, but something I always came back to. It’s not like we had a particularly chaste relationship, but I’ll always remember that first kiss.

It was my first date. Well, not my first date, but the first one in a long time, say a good 20 years, and the first one since my marriage had come to a screeching end. Imploded. Exploded. Smashed to bits. Stick a fork in it. Over. But that is a story for another time.

I spotted her first on one of those Internet dating sites and was completely smitten. We were the same age, her kids were all in college. And I thought her pictures were beautiful. For once, I was going to be careful. “Hold on to this one,” I thought. “Wait a while until you are really ready.”

Two days later she contacted me.

Well, there goes that plan, I thought. After two weeks of email and phone calls I found myself at her door, with flowers, baguettes, wine and cheese. I’d hoped for a picnic, but the weather was iffy, so I swept in to the place and started puttering around the kitchen. In honor of the day, I bought a set of little champagne bottles. I opened it with much ceremony and toasting.

Here’s a tip: don’t ever buy sparkling wine in a four-pack.

We found a pitcher for the flowers and had our picnic on the floor. We talked, about our children, our exes and spouses, our parents, the general insanity of the oil depletion allowance, the evils of insurance companies, and Ben Franklin. We cried a bit. We went to dinner nearby and let the old Jewish people waiting before us provide the floor show.

Finally, we were back at her place and it was time to go. I bent down for a kiss and felt her arms around my neck. Her lips were soft as lamb’s wool, and firm at the same time, and just a little moist. I can still remember the taste, which seemed to go on forever and last just the briefest of moments as I skidded off to the side.

I think the world stopped spinning. Somewhere, fist fights were halted in mid punch, children stopped crying, fireworks waited in mid-explosion, and green lights lasted just that much longer. I wanted to go back for more, I ached for another taste. Don't, I thought to myself, don't act like a creep. 

And now, she was leaving.

“I’m going,” she said, again, her hand on the door, unmoving. “The kids are in the car, they’re waiting.”

Six years and its gone in a flash. I had promised myself that I would never feel this way again. When the marriage ended, I wasn’t so much hurt at the loss of the relationship as I was annoyed at the inconvenience. Find a place to live, buy new beds, paint the walls, hire a mover. Pay a security deposit. Here I am. Getting kicked in the teeth, again.

“Stop wallowing.”

“Okay, now you’re pissing me off. Words were spoken and promises made. I think I am allowed to be sad over something so important. I am ambivalent about you being glad at looking ahead.

“I really do wish you and the children well, but as an unemployed, middle-aged white guy with a bad heart and a worse thyroid, and a knack to piss off people, my future doesn’t look so hot.

Great, my big speech and I worry about splitting infinitives.

“But, you know what? I keep taking my classes and writing my papers. I am going to the gym. I try to set standards for my children, even if they ignore me. I make dinner for the family, even if no one speaks during the meal. I keep applying for jobs. I take my meds. I cut the grass. I do the laundry. I pay the bills. I put one foot in front of the other.

“So, yes, stupid movies make me cry. Breaking up hurts. Not having a job is frightening. Trying to balance my health with crappy insurance is scary. And wanting to have someone to give me a bit of shelter from life is not a crime. Not when I thought that is what I had pledged already. And what I was ready to do for you.

“I loved you completely and Lord help me, if you crooked your little finger right now I would probably come running and all would be forgiven. But my happiness is not your responsibility.”

I finished talking. Not exactly the declaration of principles I was hoping to make but it would have to suffice. The only problem is that she left after “doesn’t look so hot.” I have to save that. Might come in handy someday.