It's not yet 7:00AM and I'm sitting on my red couch with tissue box at one elbow and cup of tea at the other. The sun is not yet up, but the light over the front stoop is on, illuminating the thick, sparkling, brilliantly white snow blanketing the shrubs outside my window. I've decided it's time to hire someone to plow the driveway; I don't think I could get out this morning if I wanted to. And I don't want to.
Despite my home remedies of organic yogurt chocked-full of five active live cultures, garlic, vitamin C and tea, I'm sick. Not hold-the-stomach and sit-for-hours-on-the-toilet-with-a-bucket-under-my-chin sick, but lumps-the-size-of-grapes-under-my-ears with sore-throat-and-phlegmy-cough-runny-nose-and-low-grade-misery sick. I almost prefer the first kind; it is a righteous sick, one leaving no doubt about one's ability to perform. Unfortunately, I rarely get sick like that and so live my current sickness with a niggling sense of guilt, feeling like I could do this or that if I really tried. And I'm not going to try. That was decided when I woke up, realizing that this cold had progressed instead of retreated--even after a good night's sleep--then measured the new-fallen snow. Four new inches of snow on my front yard, on my sidewalk, on my driveway. Sheesh. If Toby, my son, were here, I'd make him get outside and get busy. But he isn't.
Toby moved away from home two months after his 18th birthday, bunking with a rotating group of friends in a drafty house in Eau Claire. I didn't approve, didn't think he was “making good choices,” and in many ways he isn't. His leaving made me nervous, sad and grumpy as I personalized his decision, secretly feeling it reflected on my ability to parent, hurt because he wanted to leave me.
Since classes ended I've been gulping down fiction the same way an alcoholic might chug a bottle of vodka after a period of abstinence. The day before my son had his “parents open house” I'd finished a book about two 58 year old men who—in a last-ditch effort to reclaim their youth—meet to climb a mountain they'd conquered in their youth. They reminisce about those early days, how they stayed up all night debating god and philosophy, sleeping on the sand, traveling up and down the coast unfettered by thoughts of bills, family and where their next meal will come from.
Reading this, I realized something: when I was Toby's age I'd thumbed across the country twice; was solidly ensconced in the drug culture with my addictions already ruling my choices; and had engaged in all manner of unsafe, life-threatening behaviors. In other words, I'd made terrible choices. And I decided that Toby is doing exactly what he's supposed to do. While today's choices may dictate that he work a little harder in the future, they are not nearly as stupid and harmful as the choices I made when I was his age. And he's still not drinking or smoking pot.
Given his gene pool—one of both genius-level IQ and abject addiction—I think Toby's doing just fine.
Now, if the dude would only come shovel my driveway I could get my mail out and take a nap.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Notes From the Red Couch: Phone Call From an Ex
It's Saturday and I'm sitting on my red couch with Michael Feldman on the radio, eyes occasionally flicking to the bank of windows in front of me. The snow started about an hour ago and is falling fast and furious; I wonder if it will affect the karaoke plans with my new co-workers tonight, then shrug the thought off; I will not let the weather dictate my life and I remember my personal promise to “have a life,” to develop deeper friendships with women instead of relying on men I've dated or met from the internet for emotional support.
My mind keeps rolling back to last night's phone call.
The week was long and I'd been mulling over Friday night's possibilities: I could wander to the Acoustic Cafe and check out the music there; peruse Volume One's website for interesting events; drop by my son's house, playing the Snoopy Mom; see a movie; or go to a 12 Step meeting. All seemed equally attractive Friday morning, but by the time I hit the Hallie exit on my way home from work, the solitude of my house and the warmth of my thickly-blanketed bed beckoned to me and I shelved evening plans.
Of course, once I was in my pajamas I found I was vaguely restless, with an underlying feeling of discontent; it was 7:00 PM on a Friday night, for Buddha's sake—I'm 47 and acting like a granny as I waited for 9:00 to roll around so I could go to bed.
In the midst of my disgruntled musings, my phone rang. I glanced at the number, and while the accompanying name had been deleted months ago, I recognized it as B's. I debated the wisdom of answering it; he was one of my more painful relationships, one that dragged on for over a year as I maintained contact long after the physical intimacy ended, hoping for a legitimate friendship. I flashed back on our last phone call: I'd yelled that he was a fucking addict and a fucking alcoholic and I was tired of talking to him like he was a client. I told him to take the blows related to his drunk driving charge, to “man-up.” Then, shaking with anger, I'd hung up on him.
Later I'd written him an email, telling him I probably loved him, but I refused to bare witness to his addictions, that if he ever needed help I'd be there, but to go away in the meantime. He had. Until now.
I answered, pretending I didn't recognize the number. His voice piped through my cell into my ear, wishing me a Merry Christmas and I settled into the corner of my couch as we chatted; I'd missed him, missed talking to him. Our conversation was natural, falling into a familiar pattern. I've never been able to put my finger on what it is that I like about him; he isn't my “type,” isn't what I imagined for myself, but I've always enjoyed talking to him. We caught up briefly on each other's lives, and I found myself yearning for more contact, picturing him in the big, plush, blue-leather easy-chair I'd had Toby drag up from the basement, me curled up on the couch as we casually chatted. I felt the familiar frustration well up in my chest; he had always been content with phone calls, unwilling to make deeper connections, I'd always had to push to see him. I've suspected his need for interpersonal distance was from years of on-line gaming, of feeling more comfortable connecting via technology instead of face to face. Or maybe it's just me: I'd always wanted more than he was able or willing to give, even on the level of friendship.
I heard his truck door ding as we talked.
“Where are you?” I knew I was going there, but couldn't help it.
“I'm in Eau Claire, heading back to Chippewa Falls.”
Don't do it, Jennifer, don't do it....
“Why don't you come over? Talk to me?”
Shit! I did it. I didn't know what prompted his call, but I knew he didn't want to see me: I'm pushing again.
The phone line crackled as he hit a weak spot in the cell towers' reception.
“Jennifer, I don't think I should.” The line got weaker and I heard him through the static, “I don't want to hurt you again.”
“Baby, I'm not talking about a roll in the hay, I'm talking about a conversation.”
The line was dead.
I picked up my book, wondering if he'd call back.
My chest hurt from the emptiness. I grabbed the phone, scrolling to received calls and hit send. The phone rang and rang and I when the click came I expected the answering machine—hoped for the answering machine.
“Hello?”
“Hey, B, it's me. I just wanted you to know I didn't hang up on you.”
“I didn't hang up on you, either.” His voice was rueful. “We got cut off at a sensitive time, didn't we?”
“Yes. But it's ok, B. I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Jen.”
I gently disconnected and, deciding not to cry, I picked up my book and headed for my thickly-blanketed bed.
My mind keeps rolling back to last night's phone call.
The week was long and I'd been mulling over Friday night's possibilities: I could wander to the Acoustic Cafe and check out the music there; peruse Volume One's website for interesting events; drop by my son's house, playing the Snoopy Mom; see a movie; or go to a 12 Step meeting. All seemed equally attractive Friday morning, but by the time I hit the Hallie exit on my way home from work, the solitude of my house and the warmth of my thickly-blanketed bed beckoned to me and I shelved evening plans.
Of course, once I was in my pajamas I found I was vaguely restless, with an underlying feeling of discontent; it was 7:00 PM on a Friday night, for Buddha's sake—I'm 47 and acting like a granny as I waited for 9:00 to roll around so I could go to bed.
In the midst of my disgruntled musings, my phone rang. I glanced at the number, and while the accompanying name had been deleted months ago, I recognized it as B's. I debated the wisdom of answering it; he was one of my more painful relationships, one that dragged on for over a year as I maintained contact long after the physical intimacy ended, hoping for a legitimate friendship. I flashed back on our last phone call: I'd yelled that he was a fucking addict and a fucking alcoholic and I was tired of talking to him like he was a client. I told him to take the blows related to his drunk driving charge, to “man-up.” Then, shaking with anger, I'd hung up on him.
Later I'd written him an email, telling him I probably loved him, but I refused to bare witness to his addictions, that if he ever needed help I'd be there, but to go away in the meantime. He had. Until now.
I answered, pretending I didn't recognize the number. His voice piped through my cell into my ear, wishing me a Merry Christmas and I settled into the corner of my couch as we chatted; I'd missed him, missed talking to him. Our conversation was natural, falling into a familiar pattern. I've never been able to put my finger on what it is that I like about him; he isn't my “type,” isn't what I imagined for myself, but I've always enjoyed talking to him. We caught up briefly on each other's lives, and I found myself yearning for more contact, picturing him in the big, plush, blue-leather easy-chair I'd had Toby drag up from the basement, me curled up on the couch as we casually chatted. I felt the familiar frustration well up in my chest; he had always been content with phone calls, unwilling to make deeper connections, I'd always had to push to see him. I've suspected his need for interpersonal distance was from years of on-line gaming, of feeling more comfortable connecting via technology instead of face to face. Or maybe it's just me: I'd always wanted more than he was able or willing to give, even on the level of friendship.
I heard his truck door ding as we talked.
“Where are you?” I knew I was going there, but couldn't help it.
“I'm in Eau Claire, heading back to Chippewa Falls.”
Don't do it, Jennifer, don't do it....
“Why don't you come over? Talk to me?”
Shit! I did it. I didn't know what prompted his call, but I knew he didn't want to see me: I'm pushing again.
The phone line crackled as he hit a weak spot in the cell towers' reception.
“Jennifer, I don't think I should.” The line got weaker and I heard him through the static, “I don't want to hurt you again.”
“Baby, I'm not talking about a roll in the hay, I'm talking about a conversation.”
The line was dead.
I picked up my book, wondering if he'd call back.
My chest hurt from the emptiness. I grabbed the phone, scrolling to received calls and hit send. The phone rang and rang and I when the click came I expected the answering machine—hoped for the answering machine.
“Hello?”
“Hey, B, it's me. I just wanted you to know I didn't hang up on you.”
“I didn't hang up on you, either.” His voice was rueful. “We got cut off at a sensitive time, didn't we?”
“Yes. But it's ok, B. I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Jen.”
I gently disconnected and, deciding not to cry, I picked up my book and headed for my thickly-blanketed bed.
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