A few days ago I mentioned my rash, impulsive, incautious, harebrained even (I’m sure the magic thesaurus could supply me with even more accurate adjectives) state of shack uppedness with Stan.
Now, prior to the big move in I’d been a bit of a wild child (with pragmatic leanings of course) -- I was lookin' for adventure. Whatever came my way. I was takin’ the world in a love embrace (to abuse Steppenwolf’s lyrics) and that’s how I ran smack dab into Stan and our awesome and radically unsuccessful cohabitation fest.
This is NOT, no NOT, NOT, NOT a slam post on Stan by any means! We were both just too damned young and blinded by relationship adventure (i.e., all the sex you can stand -- or sit or lay and there were probably some somersaults in there too) and the invincibility high of youth (as evidenced by our deal sealing infamous last words, ‘hey, if it doesn’t work out we can always move out. No harm, no foul, right?’ sigh).
When Stan moved in, he was in the midst of a year off from college (MIT). He was working a 9-5 gig and so was I. All his pals were buried in books and lab work -- not him. They had nearly nonexistent free time.
Stan and I spent that frozen, blizzard ridden winter slogging through the never shoveled sidewalks of Cambridgeport to see old movies at The Brattle and on the MIT campus. Afterward we’d fuel up at Mary Chung’s in Central Square for the epic walk back over the Charles to our apartment on St. Mary’s Street near Kenmore Square. This was always followed by....well, use your imagination. No, use the X rated version.
Stan jumped back into MIT Land for the Spring term. He had precious little free time and what he did have was spent with his partners in AeroAstro Engineerland.
I was lonely, bored and found myself becoming my mother. That is, I became the mother I witnessed when my father was in one of his many grad school stints. She didn’t explore her own interests, she didn’t make her own friends, she rarely got out of the house. Lucy became a dull, nagging drudge just waiting for my father to come home after his massive load of classes, studying, grad assisting and factory gigging.
I became that person too. I was invited to loft parties by a co worker who played bass in The Flies; I wanted to go out to the live music clubs ALL the damned time; I wanted to walk over to Harvard Square on those lovely Spring nights to people watch at The Casablanca. Did I go -- nope. I sat home waiting for Stan. Waiting, sadly dependent and steaming at myself for being so lame and at him for not being my night in shining entertainment armor.
The best thing in the world for both of us was when we split up. Unfortunately our break up timing sucked giant Borgovian Land Worm farts. I’d just had my very first brain surgery (I wanted the damned tumor bronzed -- I envisioned it on a mantel, under glass. I could show it off to the wee ones -- ‘look dear, this is your grandmother’s very first tumor. Isn’t it clever looking?!’).
See -- there are no simple story lines, not for me anyway. Everything happens at once. And I survive.
Funnily, happily, Stan and I eventually became friends (and we still are too) -- something we always had in us. It took breaking up in the midst of crazy trauma to find it though. One of these days I’ll learn to take the simpler, easier path.
Don’t hold your breath.
Now, prior to the big move in I’d been a bit of a wild child (with pragmatic leanings of course) -- I was lookin' for adventure. Whatever came my way. I was takin’ the world in a love embrace (to abuse Steppenwolf’s lyrics) and that’s how I ran smack dab into Stan and our awesome and radically unsuccessful cohabitation fest.
This is NOT, no NOT, NOT, NOT a slam post on Stan by any means! We were both just too damned young and blinded by relationship adventure (i.e., all the sex you can stand -- or sit or lay and there were probably some somersaults in there too) and the invincibility high of youth (as evidenced by our deal sealing infamous last words, ‘hey, if it doesn’t work out we can always move out. No harm, no foul, right?’ sigh).When Stan moved in, he was in the midst of a year off from college (MIT). He was working a 9-5 gig and so was I. All his pals were buried in books and lab work -- not him. They had nearly nonexistent free time.
Stan and I spent that frozen, blizzard ridden winter slogging through the never shoveled sidewalks of Cambridgeport to see old movies at The Brattle and on the MIT campus. Afterward we’d fuel up at Mary Chung’s in Central Square for the epic walk back over the Charles to our apartment on St. Mary’s Street near Kenmore Square. This was always followed by....well, use your imagination. No, use the X rated version.Stan jumped back into MIT Land for the Spring term. He had precious little free time and what he did have was spent with his partners in AeroAstro Engineerland.
I was lonely, bored and found myself becoming my mother. That is, I became the mother I witnessed when my father was in one of his many grad school stints. She didn’t explore her own interests, she didn’t make her own friends, she rarely got out of the house. Lucy became a dull, nagging drudge just waiting for my father to come home after his massive load of classes, studying, grad assisting and factory gigging.
I became that person too. I was invited to loft parties by a co worker who played bass in The Flies; I wanted to go out to the live music clubs ALL the damned time; I wanted to walk over to Harvard Square on those lovely Spring nights to people watch at The Casablanca. Did I go -- nope. I sat home waiting for Stan. Waiting, sadly dependent and steaming at myself for being so lame and at him for not being my night in shining entertainment armor.
The best thing in the world for both of us was when we split up. Unfortunately our break up timing sucked giant Borgovian Land Worm farts. I’d just had my very first brain surgery (I wanted the damned tumor bronzed -- I envisioned it on a mantel, under glass. I could show it off to the wee ones -- ‘look dear, this is your grandmother’s very first tumor. Isn’t it clever looking?!’).
See -- there are no simple story lines, not for me anyway. Everything happens at once. And I survive.
Funnily, happily, Stan and I eventually became friends (and we still are too) -- something we always had in us. It took breaking up in the midst of crazy trauma to find it though. One of these days I’ll learn to take the simpler, easier path.
Don’t hold your breath.
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