Strange Beast (An Exercise in Self-Reflection)

Comments Off

Try writing about your sex life. Not the torrid details,1 but just try describing the romantic entanglements of…say the last two years. Start the beginning of the time period and describe the person you were with then. Talk about how you two spent time together, about the frustrations of your relationship (if you even called it a relationship) and the joys of spending time together. Describe the parts of his personality that turned you on, or the parts of his body (er, ahem, proceed gently). How long did it last? Is it still going on? How did you meet? In a bar, through friends, online? Who came next? How long were you alone? And when you move on to the next person, start again.

For whatever reason,2 I went through this process with my friend and the final output was a book we wrote together, to be published at the end of January. Partly the reason relationships dominated the book is because we already talked about them all the time. The first tenet of any good author is to write about what you know. And in looking back over that two year period of our lives, we discovered we had some interesting insights on the matter to share.

The history of my dating life3 has been largely a laundry list of unsuccessful relationships, and for better or worse, that theme is evident in the retelling. The whys of it I won’t even hazard an explanation, assuming you could identify common themes running across each one. Perhaps just a combination of circumstances or a natural gift for making things complicated or (I suspect) trying to fit every relationship into a standard mold. They come that way for some people, just not me.

But writing about it, and focusing on it particularly in the last six months has made me somewhat of an expert, albeit after the fact, on my own love life. It’s a weird perspective to gain, and notwithstanding the final steps of editing and proofing, probably horribly unhealthy to focus on it for such an extended time. It’s made acutely aware of my own mismanagement, past and present, and perhaps the inevitability of the outcome. I think it’s easier to blame yourself, though, because otherwise, you presume to understand the motivations of the other half.

So why did I suggest you do it too?

What struck me most in the process of fleshing out a story was that there was a story to tell. Self-expression is a strange beast, people find ways to get it out (paint, words, sculpture, humor, etc.) For me, of course, it’s putting words on the paper and hoping that in the doing so, I am conveying the context that I’m aiming for. But the act of self-reflection, explicitly expressed or not, is a useful enterprise. There’s a story there, maybe you have to make a flip book to tell it, or maybe tell it out loud, or act it out. And if your story isn’t for public consumption, don’t deny yourself the telling anyway. Find your story, for whatever it’s worth, because the trick of it is, you’ll find it’s quite valuable.

My story, well the part I’m publishing anyway, is called What Do You Say to the DJ? It will be on sale in late January. For more details, visit saytothedj.com.

1 Unless you’re into that kind of stuff it’s not a porn novel we’re aiming for here.
2 Actually for some very good reasons.
3 Since it won’t be much of a secret in about a month, I feel confident revealing some insider information here -- and if you have in any way been following this site for the last few years, you already know more about my love life than you ever need to.

Wedding Tales: Just Getting There

Comments Off

If this is any indication of the weekend ahead, I’m in trouble.

It is Thursday night and I am leaving tomorrow in the Bride’s car to drive down to Long Island Nowhere. My mission is to gas up the car, pack, and enjoy the rest of the night with a burrito from Qdoba in one hand, and the remote control in the other. (You thought I was going to say something else, didn’t you?)
I noticed after I got home tonight that car’s passenger side rear tire was flat. Single digit PSI. No big deal, I was planning on getting dinner from the burrito place, and gas. I just added air pump to the list with a minimal amount of complication.

I drove the entire length of Somerville looking for a gas station with a working air pump. First gas station (the one where I actually stopped for gas) broken. The second gas station I thought I would drive by wasn’t there. I don’t know if I missed it or if it mysteriously evaporated. The third, the air pump was there, the hose was not. Someone had tied it up inside the service bay. (Who steals an air hose?)

Finally, I found a gas station, almost in Medford, 3 miles from my apartment. The pump was 75 cents. 75 cents! For that, I can play Cops and Donuts for an hour at Foxwoods. Well, fortunately I had taken 50 cents out of my laundry money just in case I had to pay to pump. Unfortunately, the pump was 75 cents. Wife only had nickels in her ashtray, and it was clear she actually used her ashtray so I wasn’t touchin’ those anyhow.

On to the next gas station, same predicament. Now I have been gone for an hour, any thought of burritos and remote controls fled thirty minutes ago. Finally, I found a pump for 50 cents, somewhere still on Broadway, east of my house. Closer than I was from the further point, but having gone in an enormous circle to get there. The pump and I didn’t get along. The gauge was broken and it took me 10 PSI to figure it out that I was overinflating the tire. What happens when someone doesn’t have their own gauge and they think they are still at 12 PSI just before the tire explodes? But at the conclusion of my adventure, the tire had been properly inflated, gassed, and I was not gassed because I never got my burrito.

I was so annoyed, I forgot about doubling back to Qdoba and I drove straight home. I made it on to Atherton a block from my street going the wrong direction. Atherton and all the streets around here are one way. Yeah…not a good start to my long (island) weekend.

Just as icing on the cake, television on Thursday night sucks. I still have to pack.