Conversations with My Father (Part Deux)

  
I think sometimes I over think things when it comes to my life - the romantic aspects of it. Clearly, finding yourself rolling head first down a hill in the rain with your best friend, doesn't exactly paint a picture of the "well examined life". Then again, judging on your viewpoint, perhaps it does. But I digress.

I blame it on my parents. They have given me such high standards both in the example they themselves set and the way they raised me to never to settle, to strive for excellence and whatever you do....don't marry the wrong person. As such, I put such weight into these issues that many times i find myself staggering beneath it. It’s a hard realization to know that there's no book I can read, no test I can take, no instruction manual to follow step by step in order to arrive at a good and happy life.  

My heart has been hurt so much over the years that I have learned to instinctively distrust it, working hard training my brain the dominant & more trustworthy of the two organs. But, in the end, I don't believe there's any perfect answer. No silver bullet. No cheat sheet. I'll just have to take the best information I have and use it to make the best decisions possible. And when I still feel that information lacking, I ask my father for his advice.

My latest query was to ask if it "bothers him that he and my mother don't share a lot of the same interests" (stoic history PhD marries bubbly elementary school teacher) and whether or not he's found that an obstacle to be overcome in their marriage. 

Ever the thoughtful professor, he penned a reply which I have included below. Frankly, I believe the sentiments are universal and everyone loves a bit of fatherly wisdom. 

Thank you, dad.

Hi Sweets.  I've been a bit bothered by your question the other day, inasmuch as I do not think I answered it very well.  So I will try, briefly, to expand a little.

We like to think that we should have long-range plans for our lives, and while we are encouraged to do so and need to do so, the reality is mostly aspirational.  The reason for this is simple: we change as we grow older.  And as we change, our likes and dislikes change, goals change, financial circumstances change and so those plans must change as well. 

The future is a mystery with respect to many things, but especially with this abstraction called 'happiness'.  Most people in this world have never experienced it, I am convinced, and have made their lives commensurately miserable in the pursuit of it.  For 'it' itself is myriad in its forms and seems as fleeting as gossamer.  Yet it doesn't so much 'flee' as 'evolve' as we grow older.  The happiness of youthful passion inexorably gives way to the warmth of familiarity and sentimental attachment.  The happiness of watching a child grow, will give way in time to the stark reality of anxious nights, emotional conflict and a life-long uncertainly over the fate of that child.  The initial paternal giddiness gives way to celebration, dread, satisfaction and second-guessing, as life gives and takes its rewards and its tolls. But that's the whole point of living isn't it? 

You asked me whether I wished Mom knew more history, and the answer is: of course I do.  But I knew that history was not her strong suit when I married her.  Instead, I looked to her character, her maternal instinct, her loving nature, her eternal innocence about many things.  Where is the guarantee that a history degree would have come with all those?  Does that mean that, perhaps, I am not as happy as I could be?  Probably.  But then who is, outside the silly movies which have distorted our perspective on such things?  The familial detritus which litters the twenty-first century social landscape provides ample evidence that most people never find their ideal.  And while that may rule out attainment of the will-o-the-wisp we call 'happiness', it hardly makes impossible the more achievable, stable and nurturing objective: contentment.  And if, in the end, I can say that I am content with the way I've lived my life; that will be compensation enough. 

I hope this helps.  Didn't mean to go on.  And I certainly don't mean to tell you what to do, or what decisions you should make.  I said my piece enough as I was raising you.  It's up to you now.

Conversations with My Father (Part One)

I received the below email from my father last week following the aforementioned break up. It made me think. 

While somewhat hard to hear, I thought it was worth considerable reflection and I wanted to post it here, lest it fade into archived obscurity within the bottomless hole that is currently my gmail in-box. 

Frankly, after your wonderful comments on the last bit of fatherly advice, I just couldn't resist the urge to share this honest and heartfelt bit of paternal correspondence.
 

 

It's late and I'm worried about you getting home, so I thought I'd "scratch off a few lines", as they used to say. 

Sorry about your last minute email from [The Chef], but that in itself was revealing enough to know it was for the best.  In that context, I offer these thoughts for whatever they are worth.

Women like you, Scarlett (transparently needful of romantic love), are particularly at risk I think, because there are two ways most men will respond: (1) with reciprocal endearment and love or (2) as an invitation to exploitation.  It's just the way men are.  And, sadly, there are far more of the latter than the former.  Therefore, I think that you should try to be a little more guarded in your interactions with, and reactions to, men.  You have so much to offer the right man, but you cannot sell it too cheaply or offer it too readily.  There is an old saying I heard a long time ago and never forgot: that people tend to disdain what is thrown at them.  And that is all too true.  Moreover, by being too eager you sell yourself short.  The descriptions you have given me of your recent interactions did not convey much respect on his part, nor self-assuredness on yours.  I guess my sense is (and I don't mean to sound cliched) that you need to take ownership of your own 'personhood', for lack of a better word, in such a way as to demand that requisite respect before offering love--not after.  Real respect and love are mutually reinforcing and mutually sustaining. 

You have been through so much for one so young, but you must resist the temptation to think of yourself  as a victim.  Down that road lies immense vulnerability, not to mention cynicism.  You are in need of neither one just now.  You must take stock of your incredible assets and value them commensurately.  The question in your mind should always be whether or not a man measures up to your (preferably astronomical) specifications, not whether you measure up to his.  Meanwhile, concentrate on the requisite self-improvement we all seek.

I'm not so old that I don't understand the need for intimacy with someone, honey.  But this lurching from "candidate to candidate" in this fashion can't be good for you can it?  I mean you are so much more than that.  The mental toll, for one thing, must be considerable.  And disappointment and despair tend to reinforce each other in a cyclic, toxic emotional cocktail.  You really need to rethink your perspective, Scarlett, along with your own self regard, in order to concoct an antidote for it.  And if you do, I think you'll find that the more you redirect that energy and emotional commitment toward self-improvement and self-fulfillment, the sooner fate will take a hand with the romance.  I'm certain of it.

I actually wrote this several days ago but wanted to wait until after New Years eve to send it. 

Our trip home to the 'Promised Land' [Texas] (that really ticks Mom off when I say it) was very enjoyable and uneventful.

Love you.

My Greatest Fans

Recently I had a bad day. A fight with the new guy, shall call him The Chef, left my eyes swollen and sore with the salty remnants of tears and face so blotchty and so red that they seemed to blend seamlessly with my hair.

After calming both the physical and mental effects of the argument with a frozen ice pack for my face, and a bottle of Zin for my soul, I went to bed. Two days later I was on the phone with my father when he detected something in my voice. Whether a hint of sadness or a slight tone of frustration managed to seep through my masque of perhaps overly compensatory cheerfulness, I'm not sure. But my father, never one to be fooled by any false sentiment I may utter or deterred with a deflecting "I don't want to talk about it", finally wore me down. I gave him a brief outline of my recent romantic turmoil, bemoaned general frustration with dating, men, and relationships. Expressed frustration and in a state of emotional exhaustion, I think I even touted the virtues of an arranged marriage system.

The next morning I woke to the following email which I thought both caring, thoughtful and poignant. Frankly, I believe its underlying thesis to be an emotionally stinging truth but one that bears consideration

Hi Sweets.  Just want to say how sorry I am that you feeling low.  Life is tough in more ways than one, but that's not going to assuage you much I'm afraid.  I don't know what the answer is, Scarlett.  Your Mom and I tried to raise you to be successful and independent--and we succeeded spectacularly. 

If we made a mistake by not just marrying you off at eighteen, then I apologize.  But the older I get, the more I am convinced that happiness in life is about maximizing one's choices, and you have more choices than most women have. The flip-side of that, of course, is that you have to make some tough ones. 

It seems to me as if you are waiting for lightning to strike in an ecstatically transformative way--as with Cinderella or Snow White.  Since you are an incurable romantic (and you may not know this, but  you get that from me), you are sort of caught in a vise, waiting for that optimal situation to transpire.  But the truth is, honey, that it may or may not.  And you need to be prepared for either contingency.  And if, in the end, a very good alternative presents itself, rather the one of your dreams, it will be left to you to choose.  

My advise is simply to not  allow the perfect to be the enemy of the good.

I'm nearing old age, and long distanced from the dating scene.  Yet I can't believe there are no good men out there with whom you could be happy.  Then again, remaining unattached and unencumbered has its own advantages.  Just know that your specifications as to what you deem acceptable may change with time, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.  It isn't 'selling out' so much as it is an adaptation.  Just know that however you choose to configure your priorities, it is your life and your decision.  All I can offer is the father's hope--that if you do find someone, that discovery is impelled by much more than the mirage of transient attraction--such as the revelation of deep character, mutual respect and long-term goals.  That's my take, for what it's worth.

I know that I often sound churlish in trying to discipline you financially.  But don't ever forget that Mom and I can only be as happy as you are.  We are your greatest fans.

Love,

Papa

Scream, Shout, Let it Out

I was having drinks, sitting in someone’s quiet living room, in a circle of laid back, care free conversation with friends. The room was light and airy close to the ocean, but I wasn't quite sure. A safer place could not be imagined nor could a more comfortable way to spend, what seemed like a lovely afternoon.

Eventually the tone shifted and a nagging, pressing feeling emerged and refused to be shook off. The mood of everyone present was unnervingly altered from casual and light to secretive and knowing. Worried glances exchanged from face to face communicating something I wasn’t meant to see or information no one wanted to share.

Gradual, vague recognition crept up and a realization set in. He was here. A seeming impossibility but it made sense - he knew these people. His family was here. After all this time, silence and separation the possibility propelled my stomach into my throat and then plunged it back into place leaving a painful lump of anticipation temporarily disabling speech. The comprehension that he could, at any minute, enter the room and become a part of my line of vision set my eyes darting about, searching for some kind of warning sign or herald that would somehow assuage an unanticipated appearance.

Panic then set in. Utter terror at the thought that in this safest of places, he could suddenly be thrust into my reality unannounced and uninvited. Disjointed thoughts about everything I had left unsaid and the rage I had yet to unleash face-to-face whirled around the growing confusion of my mind.

Alarms worthy of of a DCFD station clamored in my ears as the room spun before my eyes. The previously airy space seemed to be loosing oxygen with every passing second. I couldn't understand why someone, anyone wouldn't smash one of these wall sized windows before we all lost consciousness. I had to sit down.
I fixated on the beach below, staring intently on the point at which the surf rhythmically and calmly met the shore. Taking all the effort I had to stay grounded and present before the panic overtook me completely. It was too late. I could sense him walking into the room behind me. Even though I could barely see through the distortion of the moving room, there was no mistaking him even beyond the chaos pounding behind my eyes and blurring my vision.

It wasn’t rational. I didn’t think. Fight or flight they call it? I had been fleeing this moment and these feelings and this fear for so long that the fight, the savage, overwhelming fight was the only response my swirling brain could conjure. Even so, my body seemed at once too small to contain it. The tidal wave of grief, passion and rage crashed upon me a thousand times more fiercely than I could have imagined washing away all cohesion or sense. Nothing but an echo of screams, incomprehensible noise, filled the space.

Unaware of words, unaware of thoughts, unaware of anything but the explosion of exhausting emotion and a newly discovered capacity for rage erupting from within. Hurling every remnant of sanity, feeling and self control at him one decibel at a time. Yet, he stood there placid. He seemed infuriatingly unphased at to the emotional explosion of atomic proportions to which he was seemingly immune and I longed to return to the flight strategy of before.

As I sobbed myself awake and realized that I had been screaming to the darkness of my apartment only and that this encounter had not, in fact, been real. The rage, exhaustion, and grief, however, truly did exist in an organic, almost tangible way.

It wasn't the first such dream I had had that had managed to break through the numbing effects of the tranquilizers, the Ambien and the Merlot all meant to keep my subconscious at bay. It was, however, the last such nightmare.

Nine months ago, I realized that you can only dam up a river so long before that dam collapses and the river swallows you whole. Since then I’ve let the water out, released the pressure, taken more than several deep breaths, put on my big girl panties, dug deeper, realized more and faced my fears. All but one.

Frankly, it is for that reason I feel I’m strong enough after two and a half years for Friday night. Because Friday night, I know I will not be dreaming when I see HIM standing in the room.

Ribbitt. Ribbitt. Ribbitt. 

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. 

Plop. 

These are the sounds one might hear standing by the water’s edge.
Alone, under the sleepy watch of fireflies and singing crickets - a soft melodic hum reminiscent of ‘can you feel the love tonight’ and ‘kiss the girl’ seem to dance on the warm breeze. Looking out over the small pond seeming to reflect an aura of possibilities and magic just as brightly as the slightly undulating reflection of the moon against the dark water. You close your eyes, melting away the cares of the world and open your heart up to belief and hope, as though love, never ending love were the only thing standing in front of you. Believing in everything but the possibility of disappointment and pain. And you take a step forward into what you believe to be the waiting arms of someone wonderful and then……

SPLASH. 

The unscuffed red soles of your designer peep-toes are now submerged in muck, your beautifully tousled hair gone damp and frizzed beyond recognition. What's more, you’re covered in eager, hopeful frogs who, like some other naïve singleton of recent memory, are crowding around in the hopes of being kissed. 

It seems to be the ones who aren’t hopping into the fray, those submerged and harder to catch which seem to be the most attractive. Even though there may be many an amphibian vying for the opportunity to show off his legendary croaking skills or perhaps to prove that his lily pad is the best in the swamp, I seem to end up face down in the mud trying to kiss some slippery, web-toed, wart infested croaker because I’m convinced the more elusive the frog…the handsomer the prince. A scenario which is seldom, if ever, the case. 

While the prospect of batting one's eyes and puckering up for frog after frog is, admittedly, a daunting one; (after all, you may only have frizzy hair a cold sore and a pair of worn down stilettos to show for your trouble) the possibility still remains that happiness could be waiting for you around the next lily pad. And hope springs eternal, after all. 

Welcome back to the pond, my friend. 

Ribbitt.

Frankly,

I'll Light a Candle

Do you believe in Love?

Real love? True love? The kind of love that makes all things possible and makes the world seem exciting again? The kind of love that makes you so happy that you could burst into tears at any moment? Where your face hurts from smiling and all the questions and doubt fade from your mind because you just know, in your soul, that this is right, this was the way that things were meant to be and that every hurt and struggle that you’ve gone through is all a small price to pay because it brought you to this point?

Its hard for me to even type that paragraph, let alone read to back to myself without a lump pressing urgently at my throat or the acrid blurring outlining my line of vision. 

I know this type of love is possible – but I don’t BELIEVE in it…anymore. I don’t believe in its impenetrability or that it lasts forever. 

I WANT to be that wide-eyed, optimistic girl again who believes in happy endings and that kind of love is possible again – but then again, I think that NOTHING is worth the pain I went through last year. NOTHING. 

So I’m scared. I’m scared to meet new people or to make myself vulnerable again. I’m scared to “get out there” and date because of what I not find – or even worse, what if I find it? I’m scared to let myself be happy again. 

I do WANT to be happy – everyone WANTS to be happy, right? But I found myself doing this a lot with Army – every time I even get that hint of happiness, that moment of butterflies or a touch of …. contentment (?) I stop. I pull back. I reign in. I can’t let go. I make sure that just in case I’m suddenly ambushed by sudden and utter indifference that I won’t be left in a complete state of emotional paralysis.

Recently heard an old proverb – that its better to light a candle than to curse the darkness. I do believe that, but what if that light inevitably goes out…?

Most of my friends would not describe me as timid or scared – quite the opposite, in fact. Yet, I am at a loss as to how I light that candle and still shield myself against the darkness, just in case the flame goes out? Is there some sort of emergency lighting system I can install in the event of candle failure?

 
Frankly, I still feel broken.

 

Intoxicated by my own tear's soul
And come tomorrow
When my beauty is old
Like a speckled princess
I'll try to cash in clovers for gold
So I'll light a candle and begin to
Write, turn to my work as refuge
Though my womb is a rush hour taxi
Ride, but I will try
To metamorphose pain along my plight
But I'll despise each word I write
So I am clinging to the
Edge like some soap-opera star
With her ten second fade
As the light cascades

~ Idina Menzel, "Straw Into Gold"

The Canadian & The Punk Rock Fairy*

Ok - it's about time I had to do it. I have to come clean.

There is a character that, while a leading man in a former blogging life, has yet to make a guest appearance in this daily drama we affectionately know as "A Taste of Red." In the Irish Red E-True Hollywood Story (as yet unmade) a large portion of the subject of romance between 2003-2006 (and beyond?) will be taken up by a boy we will call 'The Canadian' (because...well...he is..in FACT Canadian...yes, I know I'm just THAT creative).

So when the E! Channel finally catches on they will tell how I met this gorgeous, 6'7, brillant, funny, JFK Junior look-a-like in 2003 while shopping in Hecht's just before Christmas. I will smile as I recall that he asked to take me out to lunch right there and then drinks that night. And when he left the table to go to the restroom I called MK (my then roommate) and said "this is it. I'm having drinks with the man I'm going to marry." (What did I know? I was 23!)

They will show scenes of us blissfully happy for about 6 months, they will show scenes of us beginning to fight after month 4 because he wouldn't introduce me to his friends, because he was emotionally unavailable, because I did not feel like I was a part of his life. After several interviews of MK and Barbie #1, 2 & 3, saying how much he hurt me, they will pan to shots of me crying when he told me he was leaving for a year (his law firm was transfering him to Switzerland).

They will then mention that he was only gone 3 months, during which time we talked, chatted and emailed almost every day and he apologized, flirted, promised everything would be different, and so I welcomed him back with open arms (and a lovely black lace ensemble from Victorias Secret). And then they will interview me and say "tell us how you felt when The Canadian told you he had decided to go back to Canada for law school." And a tear will creep down my cheek, and I will try not to smudge my mascara as I wipe it away.


And I will say "it hurt but I tried to be supportive and make the best of the time we had". And they will ask "And what happened when you found out that he had cheated on you with multiple women over the course of your year and half relationship?" And another tear will creep down as they cut to Barbie #1 who will tell them about the night I called her crying. Oh - but how quickly the Canadian came a'runnin when I started dating someone else! (Again, wanting what you can't have?)

And then they will cut to a commercial break as the viewers are wondering - how in the world did they get back together? Well, we haven't established that they have, yet.


But before you start burning Canadian flags on my behalf, o darling defenders of Red, we started talking again this Christmas on a conditional basis. The conditions being the I WOULD meet his friends that I WOULD be a part of his life. That he WOULD NOT stand me up. That he WOULD remember, celebrate and purchase gifts for my birthday. And any remnents, traces, or residue traces of lying, emotional witholding or dishonesty of any kind and it was over.

So far, he has been true to his word I have since met friends, he has been more emotionally expressive and available. And so far so good. However we are not officially 'together'. I didn't want a long distance relationship because that just opens the door to lying, cheating, etc. It's an ambiguous scenario at best.

So here we are. When we're together, we're together and when we're not...well...i obviously haven't closed myself off to other options. But he is still a part of my life and before I start venting and bitching and stressing about the situation on here, which I have needed to do (get ready, sports fans), i didn't believe I could do it properly if ya'll weren't entirely up to speed.

So now you know. And there it is.

*****************

On a lighter note - this weekend's goolish festivities will include me sporting punk rocker garb (sanz fairy wings...HATE the fairy wings. Who ever heard of a punk rock fairy anyway?). Should be fun!!

*Doesn't that sound like a Mother Goose Fairy Tale on Crack?