"It's cold..."
Everything is desolate. The splotchy sky is an endless line of dull putty that doesn’t change for days, even weeks at a time. Gripped by a Buffalo winter the hope of anything changing seems about as probable as finding a winning lottery ticket. Driving, I realize my hands look like the road; dry and cracking from the cold. I imagine the trees are lonely, their leaves a memory, limbs abused by ice and wind.
It’s December 22nd; winter is just beginning. As I drive I’m listening to The Bigger Lovers’ album This Affair Never Happened…And Here Are Eleven Songs About It (Yep Roc, 2004). It’s one of my favorite discs to come out in the past few years. It sounds fresh every time I go back to it, but it seems particularly poignant and fitting at this time of year.
“This time of year I barely see daylight with curtains drawn from dawn until midnight.” Those are lyrics from album closer “For Christ’s Sake.” I’ve listened to this record from beginning to end plenty of times, and while the general feeling and theme of it are pretty obvious, from the title right down to the close-up photo of the praying mantis on the cover, I can’t pinpoint what every song is about specifically. What I do know is that the record relates in some way to my hopelessness, the bitter eyes I view the world through, and the twisted mess my stomach spends most of the time in. And all of that is related to my failure to understand and form lasting relationships with other people, especially of the opposite sex.
“Same old shit different year, it’s great to fear the things you can’t control;” lyrics from “You (You, You),” the album’s opening track. There’s some comfort in the company of other sad bastards, even if it’s only a recording played back on CD. I try and concentrate on the buoyant pop melodies, vocal harmonies, and amazing layered choruses that The Bigger Lovers use like a Trojan horse to slip their laments into your head. I turn the volume knob clockwise, sing along, and try to remind myself that I’m better off than a lot of other people.
I need to forget the fabricated drama of my own inner turmoil. Stop the bleak, faux poetic rambling about the season. Even when I think I might be too susceptible to heartbreak conveyed in art, This Affair Never Happened…still succeeds on the very basic, but satisfying merits of its energetic catchiness. It’s one of those rare records I can connect with regardless of my mood. And I think, damn, The Bigger Lovers are good as “No Heroics” nearly brings me to tears.
Around the holidays, wading through the dregs of another year, many of us are especially prone to dramatizing the events of the past twelve months. It’s natural to try and come up with a summation of what this year has meant in our lives and in the grand scheme of things. Under the influence of nostalgia, this reflection can lead to embellishment. What if this year didn’t mean anything? And this kind of thinking can be dangerous.
I guess some people infuse their mundane day-to-day whatever with a sense of urgency and importance, even if it’s inflated or totally made-up, because otherwise they might drive themselves crazy trying to decipher what the point of all this seemingly pointless shit they have to do is. I mean, if life is just flossing your teeth, going to work, renting a DVD, going to bed, then repeating the process, it could be worse; but after a while it gets boring, and any intelligent person is bound to find themselves preoccupied with existential questions. I wish that wasn’t the case. I wish I could just be content with my relatively easy life. But I have a problem living in the moment, not wondering what everything is leading up to, what my actions today will bring in the future, and how my past decisions got me where I am. This time of year can turn into a real quagmire for people like me.
A wise philosopher once chided his perspective student, “Never his mind on where he was, on what he was doing.” That sounds familiar. It’s difficult for me to accept simple pleasures for nothing more than exactly what they are; it’s always, “What does this mean?” What will it lead to? That’s probably why I can’t enjoy warm memories of past relationships without fixating on the end result. And why I think of 2005 as a year of unprecedented rejection.
A Year Of Unprecedented Rejection
In May, my girlfriend of two and a half years dumped me. She walked away from our accumulated mutual history with relative ease, probably even a sigh of relief. It’s true that our relationship hadn’t been good in quite some time, but when I asked her if she was prepared to just scrap two and a half years without even attempting to work out the problems we had, she replied that it was really only like two years because in her mind the past six months had been so bad they didn’t count. Aside from the fact that she completely sidestepped the question, it seemed to me that what she was saying was that six rough months negated all the good in the two years prior. I’m sure she would say, and maybe you would agree, that was not her point at all, but that’s what I got out of it, and those words went a long way to making me think maybe she was right.
Contrary to how it might often seem, I don’t want to be this bitter. I don’t enjoy the constant gnawing at my stomach walls or waking from fevered nightmares in a rumpled mess of sweaty sheets. Still, out of two and a half mostly happy years, the thing about my ex that lingers is the way she said at the end, “I Know what it’s like. I’ve been where you are right now,” a condescending little pat on my head. She dumped me; she had hand, and she used it.
Sure this is all from my scornful, rejected perspective, and anyone that goes on and on about getting dumped is more likely than not going to sound like a whining little bitch. My point is - assuming since you’ve read this far you’ve taken a massive leap of faith and figured I do in fact have one – anyone who regurgitates the tired old phrase “it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” is a blatant bullshit artist. I don’t want to reminisce about good times with my ex-girlfriend because all that does is remind me that those times are over…forever. I’ll likely never see her again, and I don’t know what I’d do if I did. She could very well be cuddling with someone else right now, and that thought fills me with a bottomless sadness I convert to hate.
Even though I don’t wish her any ill, and I don’t want her back, I have a really tough time dealing with the fact that the one person I was closer to than anyone else in my entire life could just cut me off like an unnecessary appendage. I recently saw the film Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, and it really shook me up. I felt physically sick watching it, and I had to turn it off before it was over. The movie hit too close to home.
I thought maybe it would be a good idea to just erase all the memories I have of past romantic involvement; wipe the brain clean. It’s not a solution everyone would endorse, but for some people, like me, it might work. Because unfortunately I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a love so strong that the desperate need to hold onto one memory of it could snap me out of the drug-induced sleep subjects in the movie were put under as someone was being deleted from their brain. I don’t believe that one memory of a past lover could outweigh the pain of a break-up.
I have one memory of the first time my ex stayed over at my apartment. It meant a lot to me. It was the final night of the graduate class we’d met in, and we sat next to each other scribbling notes back and forth in the margin of her notebook while classmates gave presentations. On the way to my apartment we stopped at the store to get some snacks. That’s where she said that there was a difference between Smashing Pumpkins and The Smashing Pumpkins, at which point I asked her to marry me.
When we left the store it was frigidly cold, one of those still, serene winter nights where the moon casts everything in blue, and the fresh snow twinkles as if jewels were embedded in it. Shortly before our relationship ended, I related my recollection of that night to her, the way I preserved it in my mind. I told her that evening was magical, and she laughed at me like I was a fool. That memory is now ruined forever too, so it can be yanked out of my skull as well. Take it all; everything must go.
Even if all the bad things about a relationship could be erased from your brain, and you were left with one pristine, perfect image of the most special time you shared with another person, that alone would be even more maddening. I would be taunted by that thought, endlessly wondering, where did she go? If my recollection of this moment is so sweet, why isn’t she still here with me? The possibilities, both good and bad, would plague me all day.
I don’t have a long, storied history with a multitude of women, far from it. I have precious little experience when it comes to these matters. That being said, 2005 was a year of unusual disappointment and disillusion as far as the fairer sex is concerned. In the past eight months I’ve watched three lovely, intelligent ladies walk out of my life. And I feel none the wiser for it.
All Aboard...
Since I’m less than two months away from being 33, my irrational fear of dying old and alone has been heightened by the romantic failures of the past year. I used to think I was pretty easy to please in the context of a relationship, but this year three women made me reevaluate that opinion. I’m beginning to consider the possibility that the qualities I’m looking for in a potential mate are too contradictory to exist in one woman. When friends try to reassure me that that’s not the case it’s little comfort because then I think, well maybe I’m just too difficult to deal with, and that’s why I can’t make a relationship work.
I’m beginning to feel like a train station. Women come, but never stay. Some hang around longer than others, but always leave. They all have destinations – high paying jobs, other relationships, kids, the things most people my age are moving toward – to get to.
I just found out that my last romantic interest of 2005 is in a relationship. It shouldn’t make that much of a difference considering she and I never had any relationship together. It’s just weird to think that a little over a month ago I was kissing her in my car. I’m not being critical of her, life moves quickly, especially when you’re sitting still like I am.
We consciously halted our involvement with one another before it went too far. It was the only logical and responsible thing to do. See, there was a deal breaker. So much about us seemed to match perfectly on paper. And in person we had a good time. There was just one thing that made it impossible to believe we could have a lasting relationship with each other. She wants children.
It’s pretty ridiculous that I’ve spent so much time dwelling on this woman and our limited encounters. All we shared was a few marathon phone conversations and one date. In one of those phone conversations this girl told me that she still wanted to believe in storybook romance. True to my cynical form I told her there was no such thing. And even though I firmly believe that romance, at least the kind portrayed in most movies, is a farce, I’m probably a bigger sucker than all of the people that believe in fairy tales coming true because I was ready to adore this girl I hardly knew with relatively few questions asked.
To this day I still don’t know her last name, but trivial details like that seemed inconsequential next to her eyes, or the way she said, “what did you do?” every time we heard a siren outside. I thought it was charming that she called me a whore when I started beating her at darts. “I’m just going to start insulting you now,” she said. But of all of the insults she could have hurled at me, she called me a whore. I thought that was fantastic.
She’ll probably make a wonderful mother some day. She’s caring, intelligent, warm, witty, and beautiful, exactly the kind of person who should be propagating the species, instead of the majority of those who actually are. I’m not sure of much, and I hesitate to ever say never, but the fact that I want nothing to do with parenting is about as certain as anything I can think of. And my aversion to kids makes me about as popular as Hitler at a bar mitzvah. Many women would recommend I get used to being alone given this disclosure.
Baby Hater!
The second woman I was involved with in 2005 already had two sons. I vowed I would never date a woman who had kids, but I broke many promises I’d made to myself in the past because of the intensity of my attraction to this lady. Her children lived with their father, so I fooled myself into thinking somehow it might work out. The affair was ill advised from the beginning, and I guess I knew all along that it was destined to end in a horrific mess, but for once in my life I dove head first, consequences be damned, and just enjoyed the time we spent together. And my choice to ignore all of the warning flags came back to bite me in the ass.
When she told me that she didn’t want to see me anymore, her consolation was to say that now I was free to find some sweet young girl who “won’t have any babies you’ll have to hate.” It wasn’t the first time I’ve been vilified because I don’t particularly care for children. I generally keep those feelings to myself because in the past when I’ve said I don’t like kids people have reacted as though I just sprouted horns and have the blood of innocent victims trickling from the corner of my laughing lips. I honestly had someone tell me once that I was a bad person because I don’t like children. In her opinion, any redeeming qualities I might have, any good deed I have ever done is null and void due to the fact that kids don’t fill me with fuzzy feelings of unconditional love.
I admit it; I don’t melt into an oozing mess of goofy grins and stupid babble in the presence of babies. I get that way around my cat sometimes, but she’s exceptionally cute. I’ve never seen a child that comes even close to being as cute as my cat Goo. On top of that, Goo will never lie to me to get herself out of trouble; she will never take my car without asking and get into an accident with it, and she will never scream demonically like a spawn of Satan in the super market check out line because she wants some stupid toy or candy.
Many people have asked me why I don’t want to be a father. The short answer is that kids are smelly, loud, expensive, completely needy, draining, ungrateful, and generally will not listen to reason. I certainly don’t believe that all children are monstrous brats, just most of them. I have a niece and a nephew, and I love them both very much. I do okay when I’m around them, and they seem to like me, of course they’re not old enough to know better yet. But even when I’m spending time with them, I’m quite relieved when it’s time for Uncle Matt to go home.
I have absolutely nothing against people who are filled with joy in the presence of kids. To each their own. I just don’t get it. And I think it’s entirely unfair when people treat me as though I'm a fundamentally flawed human being just because I don’t go gaga every time a baby’s in the room, and I don’t feel the irresistible urge to sow my seed. I walk into a public place where a kid is screaming, and I become immediately annoyed; I don’t want to deal with it.
I’ll listen to some punk ass kid scream their fucking lungs out about injustice, real or perceived, on a CD all day long, but a spoiled brat shrieking for some trinket in a store I want nothing to do with. I don’t want to be deprived of my freedom by someone requiring all but constant attention. Hell, even dogs, as cute as they may be, are too dependent for me. I’ve been accused of being selfish, and that is definitely true. At least I acknowledge it.
"You're selfish, self-centered, and cold"
I happen to think it’s much more selfish to have kids if you’re not 100% certain that you are committed to the responsibility of raising them. Sure, a lot of people would contend that nothing in life is 100% certain, and the ability to adapt and deal with unexpected developments is a true measure of strength and character. I wouldn’t disagree with that, but the harsh truth is that sometimes the best a person can do is not good enough. I don’t think I would be a good parent. I can barely take care of myself, and there are too many ways to fuck up a child forever even if you have the best of intentions.
Once you have a child your bad decisions no longer personally impact you alone, they will have irrevocable affects on another human being that may never even know the extent of what you’ve sown deep in the recesses of their psyche. Don’t bother telling me I’m scared or that I’m negative, or selfish, because you wouldn’t be telling me anything I don’t already know. And a lot of the reasons that people choose to procreate are selfish too. I have absolutely no doubt that everything is totally different when you have a child that is your own flesh and blood, but bringing more human beings into a world that is so fucked up when there are already so many kids without homes and families, and the planet’s resources are so taxed by overpopulation is quite selfish.
Ghandi or Gacey?
Anyone who looks at children and sees the unspoiled innocence and love in life, or the endless potential for positive impact in each person must also acknowledge the very real possibility that any kid could grow up to be a serial killer, or maybe just the rotten asshole that tore into me on the phone at work the other day for no particular reason. Or they might just end up being a slack ass like me, which probably wouldn’t lead to any really devastating consequences for the world at large, but wouldn’t do much to enrich it either.
Far be it from me to challenge the beliefs of the screenwriters that brought you the universally beloved holiday classic It’s A Wonderful Life, but I honestly don’t think the world would be that much different if I had never been born. I’m not saying that I hate myself and want to die, or that I’ve never done one good thing in all of my years here on earth, but looking at it objectively; my effect on the world has been negligible. What some would call a defeatist attitude I merely call keeping things in proper perspective. I’m okay with not being a mover and shaker on the world stage. I’d rather live a simple life than be responsible for the history-altering actions of a Mohammad Atta or George W. Bush.
I don’t possess enough of an ego to believe that it’s imperative for my bloodline to be carried on into future generations. A girl I work with once asked me, “If you don’t have any kids who’s going to take care of you when you get old?” It’s a valid and practical question. As I stated earlier I have this fear of being old and alone, but if that’s your main motivation for procreating, that’s about as selfish as you can get. And having offspring certainly doesn’t ensure that they’ll be around to ease your transition into the golden years.
I guess some people equate children with unconditional love. It’s been suggested that’s why many young girls want babies, they want someone to love them no matter what. But to me there is a big difference between unconditional love and dependence. I think of unconditional love as the decision to stay with someone even though you recognize his or her flaws.
Kids don’t have the capability to really understand defects in personality until they reach adolescence, and even when they can see their parents as plain old human beings, warts and all, they don’t have much of a choice. In most cases necessity ensures children will stay with their parents until a certain age because they have nowhere else to go. And often the lines between love, obligation, guilt, and complacency get pretty blurry for an adult child dealing with their parents. So, I’m not sold on the idea that having a child guarantees you unconditional love; it might just guarantee you insatiable need in the guise of unconditional love.
Then you have to ask yourself, even if unconditional love is part of the bargain, does that make up for all the negatives that come with kids? I mean I like the idea of unconditional love as much as the next guy, but I’d prefer to have it with someone who doesn’t crap in his or her pants. But I’m not naïve enough to think that any argument I make could change the mind of someone that wants a family. If the idea of cleaning up a baby’s toxic poo doesn’t deter people probably nothing will. The second woman I dated this year actually told me she liked the smell of babies’ vomit, which kind of drove home the point that there’s a fundamental gap in understanding between me and the kid people that will never be bridged.
Now, before I get a shit load of nasty, damning e-mails, don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like I walk down the street kicking over strollers and swatting babies clean out of their mothers’ arms. I don’t hate children, and I’m not mean to them when I have to be around them, I just choose not to be around them that much. I’m not fooling myself; I know that this will seriously hinder my chances with women in my age range. So, I’m trying to reconcile myself to the fact that I’m most likely going to be alone. That’s not easy to do, especially when you can’t take solace or comfort in the memories of loves long gone.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
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