Always Rings Twice (Or More)

Since I moved to my place, I've been getting a lot of marketing mail. Realtors, housekeeping services (both understandably), and school-age-children-related propaganda.

Every week I clean out my junk mail. Trained to be paranoid, I tear out my name and address, shred that portion, and recycle the rest. There is more the following week. There is more, and more still. I feel inundated, annoyed by the inconvenience.

These days, I'm plain seething. How DARE they target me based on my age and gender. To lump me in a specific demographic group implies assumptions. I am a certain age. I MUST have children. Never mind my disposition, preferences, conviction, let alone my individuality or identity.

To this day some find it hard to believe that some of us may choose not to have children. As if everybody must. Because that's the norm? What nature intended? To me, the reasons NOT to have children are numerous and obvious. Every time I run into parents and/or children in public situations, or when I listen while a friend or a family member recounts the challenges of parenting, I say to myself, "THIS is why." And I'm glad. Mentally high-fiving myself even.

I've been asked to list my reasons. (There are probably at least 5 bullet points.) I used to oblige. After a while, I think I don't owe anybody an explanation. It is as if this decision (if they can believe it's a conscious, calculated decision) is so unfathomable that it is my duty to justify it to strangers' satisfaction. Frankly, I'm tired of the burden of proof.

No doubt, I can imagine that the rewards of being a parent must be unparalleled. My unwillingness to go down that path is not a statement against those who do take the plunge. There is no need to preach the benefits. I did my own thinking (imagine that!) and outweighed them. Pure logic. Case closed.

All this said, what outrages me the most is putting myself in someone else's shoes, someone who didn't choose to be childless, and is constantly getting bombarded by cruel reminders of his/her very state, a state that might be considered failure, or reason to feel a void in life. Every piece of mail inviting your nonexistent child to pre-school, suggesting the best place to buy art supplies, or on after-school programs that vie for your attention. That must be fucking exhausting.

Heartless. Inconsiderate. Oblivious. Go away.

Glaced

I hope Denisse doesn't read this. I have no intention of causing distress. I still need to write as if nobody is reading. This is my last haven.

Yesterday Denisse and I went out for drinks. It'd been ages. We have so many fond memories of meeting for happy hour, getting really happy, bonding over a drink, or two, or four if we're out dancing at clubs. What good times we've had! They feel brief now in hindsight. But I wouldn't trade them for anything.

We went to this hip and happening strip that we'd been to many times. I used to be able to pretend that I belonged. For some time, it felt like that we did, be it a chilly Saturday night or a warm Sunday afternoon. I'd be so charged, I could skip.

We weren't as carefree on this day. But I did enjoy being outside and the people-watching. We'd joked over lunch, "Who cares about food? The ultimate goal is the drinking." Denisse had laughed. And she'd lamented that, if drinks were two hours away, it was too long.

At last, after strolling past many stores whose goods we couldn't afford, we settled at a cool, open-air bar. We selected our cocktails. They were artisanal and delicious. Our bartenders were friendly and cute. I savored each mouthful, careful not to oversip. I looked around at this beautiful place and stared out at the glaring sun. I was happy.

Denisse wasn't talking. Our "usual" was that we'd open up after a few sips and bitch about whatever had been bugging us, or be sharing silly anecdotes. We'd get giddy. We'd giggle.

But Denisse stayed quiet. I wasn't sure: did the alcohol bring her down? Or was I just now noticing -

Well, I did get giddy. After telling Denisse that my parents had been up to something, hiding the true reason they hadn't been around for our weekly Skype calls, I noticed our reflections on the chrome surface of a beer tap right in front of us. Full funhouse effect. I took a photo and laughed. I promised I'd post it later.

"You're easy," said Denisse, referring to the effect of one single drink on me. I confessed that when I am out drinking, it doesn't take much. The last time I met up with Jean Henri, I had only two glasses of wine over the course of over two hours. I was so high, I had to be mindful taking a short trip to the restroom so as not to stumble. It was embarrassing. Also exhilarating.

My theory is that our mindset BEFORE the intake matters. (Not an original insight, I realize.) If you're already in a good mood, having a few sips can elevate that mood exponentially. If you're drinking to drown your sorrows, and I speak from experience, of course, ain't no magic potion gonna lift your spirit. Primo champagne is not gonna make you happy if you're not already happy.

Which reminds me of the sad fact that so many of us with an addiction circle back in search of that high. No substance can get you back there. Nothing beats sweet memories. Nothing will compare.

And so it hit me: Denisse wasn't happy.

I've known this for quite some time. She is not UNhappy. But she is definitely not happy by definition. Even though this pseudo-epiphany caused no consternation, it saddened me.

I told her that her drink was weak compared to mine (we'd tasted each others').

Comes to memory one of the nights early in my friendship with the now deceased Sherry (so many nights were a blur). I forget the context, but I said something to the effect of "You have to surrender and become susceptible to your poison", which made Sherry laugh her hearty laugh. It was a great memory, making my friend laugh.

Years ago, when I experienced heartbreak like I'd never experienced heartbreak before, I couldn't believe the pain. How EVERY second would hurt. There was no relief. I wanted to curl up in fetal position and rock myself to oblivion. I came across one of those quotes that seemed such pearls of wisdom. Little did I know that some time later they would be a dime a dozen on Pinterest and the like.

The quote was:
Everything is going to be okay in the end.
If it is not okay, it is not the end.

I was blown away. It offered solace, a respite from the unrelenting pain I was acutely feeling.

Now I chew on it. "The end". That's death, isn't it? So are we saying, in essence, we're all looking forward to "the end"? The end of our daily struggle, the end of not knowing what fucks you next, the end of suffering? The end of our last breath.

Buddha offers a path to end suffering while one is on this earth. But that's too much work. What works for me is knowing "This, too, shall pass." And when it all passes, it's the end of the road. We'll get there, all in good time.

I care for Denisse like a sister. It is unsettling, the knowledge of her unhappiness. But we are all unhappy one way or another (except those enlightened creatures amongst us). RJ is unhappy, I'm unhappy. I know my love can't fix unhappy. And I'm okay with that. But I am also happy, in my own way. You can be both. It's not contradictory. Human beings are complicated.

I just hope that Denisse, in her unhappiness, lives with happiness as well. Our time on earth is a constant battle. But what is the alternative? The end.

Dogeared

I hope, when I am not engaging, Alley knows that it is not her. It is me.

Alley is a good dog. So docile. Couldn't be more submissive. I reminisce the times she and I would run out the backyard on a hot summer night, both of us naked, and just run around like maniacs. I'd run, pretending that I could out run her. She'd get a kick out of it. I'd call out to her, and she'd come. Sometimes she got so excited she'd paw me and scratch up my thigh. Oh, good times.

We had a sizable backyard then. It was not ours. It was rented. But it was ours.

And now we're all cooped up in a condo. It affects all of us. RJ grew up in a rural area when he ran around exploring hills and streams all day, just like my father, a fisherman's son, did, growing up. RJ is a lot like my father in temperament. Go figure. You marry your parent of the opposite sex if you're hetero, right? Textbook.

Imagine the guilt. Going from that kind of openness to having to take the elevator all day just to walk the dog. None of the serenity. It's a fall from grace.

Dog's older now. She doesn't play catch anymore. I drive by the park in our old neighborhood once a week when I see my new acupuncturist. It is where we used to take Alley and send her off-leash. RJ threw the ball so far. She ran so fast you couldn't see her legs. She and her crazy eyes. There is this wonderful photo of her in which she's catching a ball in midair. She is closer to the photographer than RJ. It is as if she is levitating. She appears monstrous. A freak of nature.

These days I rally to take Alley somewhere where she can be set off-leash, at least once a week. But it doesn't always work out. And it's not the same. A dog needs to be off-leash, dammit. It's their nature. Freedom, however brief, is the least we can give her.

So many fond memories, the three of us. Those years at the house were the best times of my life. The way I'm taking a trip down memory lane now, you'd think she's dead. She is not. It'll be terrible when she dies.

I hope, when I am not engaging, Alley knows that it is not her. It is me.