I had dinner last night with the Greenes. (It sounds like a PBS documentary, doesn’t it?) It was a good time. And a relief. And I just said “no” to tequila.
We’ve not visited since their return from a Florida trek during which I stayed at their home and sat with their two lovely dogs, Lucky and Zoe, and their terrorist beagle puppy, Bear – obviously I didn’t see them then, so, the last occasion I actually spent any time with them was a tequila-soaked night of birthday partying for a mutual friend.
Here’s the thing; that was the first night of two unfortunate evenings when my tequila-soaked brain triggered me into prating of poppycock and boorish, uncouth vulgarities and tasteless twaddle of inappropriately oafish and loutish, ill-mannered and vaguely offensive inanity. With the Greenes, I realized it – vaguely realized it – the next day but – unaccustomed to being guilty of idiotic, alcohol-prompted drivel – I didn’t know quite what to do. That was 23 days ago.
Which is a long time – for us, the Greenes and I – between visits. So, last night, I brought up my trespass, casually, during dinner while turning down a second glass of wine and poo-poohing even the suggestion of breaking out the tequila. It seemed a good time to share my impression that I had committed sins more than venial when last we were together and that I had been worried since then, that at least one of them had had enough of me – a not uncommon occurrence in my life, and one that – should it occur with the Greenes, would likely finish me. The Greenes graciously excused my behavior and assured me we were fine, and assured me further that at least one of them hadn’t noticed (or pretended not to have noticed) and how many far worse gin-soaked jackasses than I they had suffered through the years. I believed them.
I had another tequila-soaked night less than a week later during which I managed to empty a room. It was that second one which prompted me to say to myself, “Maybe tequila is not a good idea?”
I am isolated enough. I don’t need to peel off any of the few remaining friends I have. And I hardly think it coincidental that after those tequila nights, communication between me and the “victims” in the first case was quite limited for three weeks and in the second case, well . . .
I believe in space. I didn’t always. But I have learned – via a journey down a long and extraordinarily difficult, rutted, signage-free, not on any GPS or map road – that it is best NOT to expect anything from anyone, but, rather, to accept what is. Or, not.
And, even more difficult, to accept that sometimes – difficult as it may be to understand – people need to believe stories about you that lead to exits. And blaming yourself for that is a waste of energy and time.
And an even bigger waste; questioning or blaming them. We are who we are. Even when tequila soaked. There exist in all of us parts that are loveable, parts that invite embrace, and parts that are despicable and prompt departure or distance. In a life, there will be those who can deal with the truth of that forever, those who can deal with the truth of that sometimes, and those who can’t -ultimately – deal with the truth of it at all.
You go on. You do the best you can. You understand what you can. You don’t get what you can’t get. You hope for forgiveness or understanding from others. You get it sometimes. Sometimes you don’t. You’re there when you can be. You hope they are there when you need them. We all fail. That’s life.
Am I a little melancholy about some of those fails – mine and others? Yes. But, Project Runway is on tonight, and the Slashmadness contest at TheBackLot is one (with Sterek from Teen Wolf sure to win again) and there was a GIF made of Stiles (Dylan O’Brien on Teen Wolf – not that I’m obsessed) rubbing a man’s ass (click on the pic) –
– and there is a musical theatre trivia contest at 54Below in NYC that sounds like the sort of thing I used to do and I am reading three books – all of which I like – including a classic author I just “discovered”, James Purdy, whose Cabot Wright Begins I got from Amazon for .01; and Will Schwalbe’s The End of Your Life Book Club, which is – well – he reads books with his mother, who is dying from pancreatic cancer – yeah, I know, I shouldn’t be reading this but there it is – and it is quite good AND giving me a list of books I now need to add to the list of books I now need to read before April 15 (jeesh – I only have eight months – so many books, so little time) and, just added last night, Sue Greene gave me her SIGNED copy (borrow only) of Neil Gaiman‘s The Ocean at the End of the Lane, which I am also enjoying.
So, melancholy be damned. I wore a sleeveless shirt, sweats, and no shoes to the Greenes last night and Sue said my new haircut, glasses, and semi-toned almost a little anyway body looked good. And there it is. While I will never be an Instastud, luring the hotties with my form, at least I am not quite as repugnant as I was – and while I am still suffering the results of some brovarication from a few people – well – never mind –
The point is – what is the point? The point is – some people have forgiven and accepted me who I am. Which is a good day, right? And when your use-by date is approaching, you need to track the good days and be grateful for all the acceptance, forgiveness, embrace and love you get – no matter how temporary.