I’m convinced. There is no permanence; there is no normalcy. In twenty-something relationships, all bets are off. My friends and I seem to run the gamut with ours: a beautiful wedding *ahem* after an announced pregnancy, a five year couple back to square one, an engagement broken, a bi-coastal courtship with an *ahem* gentleman in his mid forties, a “friends with benefits” understanding which only exists in South Beach/the Hamptons/his apartment/cabs, an illicit affair with an *ahem* twenty year old, a burgeoning romp involving a boy who will one day be famous, we’re sure of it…
This is not just what it means to be single and in a city of any size, this is not just about vodka martinis and clichéd musings of stilettos and highlighted hair, yet here we all are: confused, in our good jeans, lost, swimming, stirring fodder, finding…what?
There is and there isn’t anything steady about sparkling rocks on fingers and whispers on Sunday afternoons, I love yous, daydreams and texts. I’ve seen it happen to people less than…and sure it is exciting, and sure it is our *ahem* dare I say, pliant youth…we’ll take it while we’re still svelte. We’ll talk forever, but we will not have wasted a moment.
What is it worth, we find ourselves asking each other. Does he like me, do I like him, why do we always care? The heartache, the imbalance, the shame—we are in love with that and not him. We are addicted to such rushes, we want to be liked best so we can turn them down for doing what we’ve asked for all along. We’ve got party tales at this juncture, most of us, arguably, not much else. The few of us that have found connections find out we eventually lose them, left with our unfulfilled expectations and our prettiest top stained from spilled Sangria.
But then, the mornings that make it all worthwhile, stuttering in the freezing cold and getting your sneakers made fun of until you buy new ones, close vicinity on a corduroy couch in a crowded room, a plan that just might work, if everyone, well okay, just you, back off and just let it meander the direction it wants to…whether that’s toward us or away…
This is not just what it means to be single and in a city of any size, this is not just about vodka martinis and clichéd musings of stilettos and highlighted hair, yet here we all are: confused, in our good jeans, lost, swimming, stirring fodder, finding…what?
There is and there isn’t anything steady about sparkling rocks on fingers and whispers on Sunday afternoons, I love yous, daydreams and texts. I’ve seen it happen to people less than…and sure it is exciting, and sure it is our *ahem* dare I say, pliant youth…we’ll take it while we’re still svelte. We’ll talk forever, but we will not have wasted a moment.
What is it worth, we find ourselves asking each other. Does he like me, do I like him, why do we always care? The heartache, the imbalance, the shame—we are in love with that and not him. We are addicted to such rushes, we want to be liked best so we can turn them down for doing what we’ve asked for all along. We’ve got party tales at this juncture, most of us, arguably, not much else. The few of us that have found connections find out we eventually lose them, left with our unfulfilled expectations and our prettiest top stained from spilled Sangria.
But then, the mornings that make it all worthwhile, stuttering in the freezing cold and getting your sneakers made fun of until you buy new ones, close vicinity on a corduroy couch in a crowded room, a plan that just might work, if everyone, well okay, just you, back off and just let it meander the direction it wants to…whether that’s toward us or away…
3 comments:
"close vicinity on a corduroy couch in a crowded room".
Once again, you've hit the nail right on the head with a handful of words.
It can be so hard to back off and just let things happen, don't you think?
Thank God. I thought it was just me and that I had some kind of birth defect that made me analyze every. little. thing.
I guess it wouldnt be dating or love or men if any of it was "normal".
You write well in this style K.
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