New romances... new romances are a trip, no mistaking.
They are like a rollercoaster of fun and nightmare mixed into a ball of hope and desire. All energy and expectation with no tether to reality anywhere close by.
We all do crazy things when we are first falling in love.
No question.
Don't get me wrong. I don't live in a world that believes that every budding romance is a tidal wave of 'I'm in love! I'm in love! I'm in love!'. Not in the least. My world is a world of doubt, second guessing and overcompensation, but it is also a world of grand gestures, small sins and sweet nothings.
The world that I have trouble dealing with is a very small world called 'Regret'. This isn't your run of the mill regret. No that sad-sack of a beast is almost non-existant in the modern psyche, thanks to TV and self-help books. No, the regret that appears is generally a small form of regret that raises its ugly little head one of those sweet nights...
You know the one that I am talking about...
Yep. that's the one...
Out with your honey, enjoying a pint or a coffee, listening to every word they say; like life itself depends on it. When it happens... yup, it happens, they get through an anecdote or life story and you look up, aghast, not knowing whether it is jealousy or sheer regret, but one way or the other you feel small. Smaller than you have in a while, like you don't exist and everything you've done to date doesn't actually qualify you as a human being. You think they are too good for you; they have experienced something you have only dreamed off. Why couldn't that be you?!?
This can hurt and hurt big. Some don't recover from it.
The key is that this is another person. You have to remember that. Every once in a while you luck into seeing that reaction in someone else and then you know.
Yup, you get it.
We are all human. We have all had pasts, some of which we are trying to escape. So what. Some of us have had such glorious pasts that we are trying to relive them, but every cloud has a dark lining.
Buck up.
Sometimes we are the storyteller sitting around the fire, getting the accolades and recognition. Other times we are part of the audience, listening to the story, taking it in. Once in a blue moon we get the chance of being the one that figures out what it means and then goes out into the world and makes our own little narrative.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more for dessert.
A whole bunch of years ago, before I moved to Toronto, I came here a couple times, mostly visiting pseudo family at Christmas or around those holidays we, as a people, deem travel worthy. During those trips, I met a bunch of people I would have never had to opportunity to. Some good, some bad, these meetings formed some of my earliest connections in this city.
You have probably all experienced them. Relationships by proxy. You don't so much become friends, but you are brought in to the fold because you appear to be someone held in regard by someone that is held, in turn, in regard by someone else. You are basically there because your hosts care about who you are sleeping with, not about you. Don't get me wrong, many strong friendships can come from such introductions, but just as many fizzle and disappear, following the relationship into oblivion.
Back to the memory at hand, I was in Toronto, maybe the second time in my adult life. Being driven all over by someone that 'kinda' knows the city, on our way to a small house party held by her 'best friend from high school' and her boyfriend. After parking on Eglington (to this day I still think it was Bloor and she just didn't know any better) and taking an elevator to god knows what floor, I was greeted by unfamiliar, albeit smiling faces peering out from around the protection of the aged wood and decades of white paint lacquered on their apartment door.
"Come in, come in", the male of the species screeched, holding out his hand in some sort of calming gesture. "Have a seat, have a seat. Can I get you something? A beer?"
Staring at the proffered chair, wondering if the metal bum-mechanism, like I saw in the glass case at Ikea, came with it when my ears perked up.
"Yeah, a beer would be great thanks."
"Is 50 alright?" he probed, heading across the six by six cell of a living room to what appeared to be half a door to the kitchen.
"Sure, a 50 would be great", I lied.
"You like 50? That's awesome. Not many people do. It's my brand, but all my friends think it's piss."
"50's great", I lied again trying desperately to live and breathe the untruth, if only for politeness' sake.
And so it began. The beginnings of my relationship with this guy. Off and on I would see him maybe once or twice a year for 4 or so years. And this was how we were defined.
A little while later, at some acquaintances wedding during a lull on the dance floor:
"Hey, I'm going to the bar, ya want anything?" he'd shout.
"Grab me a beer will you", I'd reply.
And back he came with a 50.
"The last two in the tub! What luck!" he'd gleefully declare handing me the bottle.
A barbeque at their new house:
"Grab a beer. I got a case of 50 'cause I knew you were coming."
And on it went. For a couple of years I was forced to live a lie. Not a big black one, but a little white speck of a lie and it hurt. It hurt like you wouldn't believe. Here I was drinking 50, a beer I couldn't stand. I don't do that. I drink what I want when I want. Domestic bottled beer is for people completely unlike me. Or for long plane rides. But not when you have a choice. Never.
Flash forward a few months or a year, and here I was sitting in a bar/gallery on Queen called 'Social'. Someone else picked it, but it was their day and I needed to make an appearance. Money was tight, the relationship long over, and I had just taken the bus down to Queen. Standing at the bar, pondering what to order, the barman explained the taps.
"Guinness, Creemore and Keiths are $6 a pint and we have 50 at $3 a pint"
Thinking quickly, I reasoned I need to stay for 4 hours, I can drink a pint every half hour, 45 minutes if I nurse. I can't afford $40 on drink. Not if I want groceries on Monday. Not drinking would be too embarrasing and I am sick of leaving early or not showing up at all.
Cinquante, je pense.
And then it began.
Everywhere I went it was a done deal.
"Wanna get a pitcher?" I'd ask on boys night.
"How about Keith's?" would be the universal retort.
"Screw Keith's.
How about 50?"
my id would blurt out.
Sometimes I won. Sometimes I lost.
Thnaks for readin'. I know it has been a while.
You have probably all experienced them. Relationships by proxy. You don't so much become friends, but you are brought in to the fold because you appear to be someone held in regard by someone that is held, in turn, in regard by someone else. You are basically there because your hosts care about who you are sleeping with, not about you. Don't get me wrong, many strong friendships can come from such introductions, but just as many fizzle and disappear, following the relationship into oblivion.
Back to the memory at hand, I was in Toronto, maybe the second time in my adult life. Being driven all over by someone that 'kinda' knows the city, on our way to a small house party held by her 'best friend from high school' and her boyfriend. After parking on Eglington (to this day I still think it was Bloor and she just didn't know any better) and taking an elevator to god knows what floor, I was greeted by unfamiliar, albeit smiling faces peering out from around the protection of the aged wood and decades of white paint lacquered on their apartment door.
"Come in, come in", the male of the species screeched, holding out his hand in some sort of calming gesture. "Have a seat, have a seat. Can I get you something? A beer?"
Staring at the proffered chair, wondering if the metal bum-mechanism, like I saw in the glass case at Ikea, came with it when my ears perked up.
"Yeah, a beer would be great thanks."
"Is 50 alright?" he probed, heading across the six by six cell of a living room to what appeared to be half a door to the kitchen.
"Sure, a 50 would be great", I lied.
"You like 50? That's awesome. Not many people do. It's my brand, but all my friends think it's piss."
"50's great", I lied again trying desperately to live and breathe the untruth, if only for politeness' sake.
And so it began. The beginnings of my relationship with this guy. Off and on I would see him maybe once or twice a year for 4 or so years. And this was how we were defined.
A little while later, at some acquaintances wedding during a lull on the dance floor:
"Hey, I'm going to the bar, ya want anything?" he'd shout.
"Grab me a beer will you", I'd reply.
And back he came with a 50.
"The last two in the tub! What luck!" he'd gleefully declare handing me the bottle.
A barbeque at their new house:
"Grab a beer. I got a case of 50 'cause I knew you were coming."
And on it went. For a couple of years I was forced to live a lie. Not a big black one, but a little white speck of a lie and it hurt. It hurt like you wouldn't believe. Here I was drinking 50, a beer I couldn't stand. I don't do that. I drink what I want when I want. Domestic bottled beer is for people completely unlike me. Or for long plane rides. But not when you have a choice. Never.
Flash forward a few months or a year, and here I was sitting in a bar/gallery on Queen called 'Social'. Someone else picked it, but it was their day and I needed to make an appearance. Money was tight, the relationship long over, and I had just taken the bus down to Queen. Standing at the bar, pondering what to order, the barman explained the taps.
"Guinness, Creemore and Keiths are $6 a pint and we have 50 at $3 a pint"
Thinking quickly, I reasoned I need to stay for 4 hours, I can drink a pint every half hour, 45 minutes if I nurse. I can't afford $40 on drink. Not if I want groceries on Monday. Not drinking would be too embarrasing and I am sick of leaving early or not showing up at all.
Cinquante, je pense.
And then it began.
Everywhere I went it was a done deal.
"Wanna get a pitcher?" I'd ask on boys night.
"How about Keith's?" would be the universal retort.
"Screw Keith's.
How about 50?"
my id would blurt out.
Sometimes I won. Sometimes I lost.
Thnaks for readin'. I know it has been a while.
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