Other People's Shoes

Many times I find it tedious to share time with people. It's not because I don't like them (well, maybe sometimes it is), it's because we are different in some way that I might find less than comfortable. Sometimes that gap of differences is more like a chasm. The odd thing is, as painful as it may be at the time, that's what makes our interaction--however brief--actually worthwhile afterward. They have different traits, stories, and perspectives that make me glad I shared social space with them. Though these kinds of social experiences many times leave me drained, they also leave me with new fuel for thought. It's as if I'm wearing someone else's shoes for a short time, however uncomfortable or painful they may be. I notice the unfamiliarity, the lack of comfort, and the different "me" they project, but so do others--the people from the group that wears those shoes. They notice me and talk to me. We share stories and experiences. For a brief time we are the same. When I finally tear myself away, drained, my first thought is relief.

Then I think about our interaction, and how much of it I took with me when I left.

The Aimless Fisherman

(a bit inspired by a previous blog post)
 
When I was on a road trip vacation in 2015 I found myself sitting in a small bar in Ennis, Montana. I had walked up the street from the little motel cabin I was staying in for the night in search of a beer, something to eat, and maybe a little social interaction. I had been sitting there for a little while when a very cute, cowboy hat-wearing lady about 20 years my junior sat down on the bar stool next to me. We talked about this and that, and after about a half hour of interesting and flirty conversation she floored me with a question I wasn't prepared for. Or maybe it was the direct delivery I didn't see coming.

"Did you ever meet someone and just want to fuck her?"

I almost did the classic "drink spew," and after trying to gather my chin off the floor, gave her a long, drawn-out beer-laced answer that was apparently not what she wanted to hear. What she probably wanted to hear was something like, "You mean like I do right now?" Anyway, after a few minutes more of talking between us, she turned her attention to another nearby patron and I was brushed aside. Whew. I dodged a bullet.Wait--What? "Dodged a bullet?!" Why would I think that way? Why didn't I want sex? Because I was on the road? No, that's probably the most perfect scenario for cheap sex you can possibly imagine. You both know you will never see each other again afterward. It's perfect. So again--why would I think that way? Because it's just not my style, that's why. It's not me. Guys are always stereotyped as the wham-bam, immediate gratification gender. Does that mean I'm broken if I don't express the same shallow, animal desire that guys are supposed to feel when they see an attractive woman? To clarify, I do feel the animal desire and attraction, but I think it's the shallow part that I have trouble with. I am also not a "take charge" type of person.

I know I'm broken to a certain extent. I've mentioned previously how unique my family was growing up, with neither of my parents having siblings. That is likely why I grew up missing out on what might be considered normal interaction between the sexes. There wasn't any open embracing, kissing, or loving touch between my parents. I'm sure they did (after all--they had five kids!), but we were apparently shielded from seeing it. That probably should not have happened. I think people should be immersed in love, surrounded by love, and taught how to express and share their feelings, not hide them. They should learn how to communicate, whether good or bad. I never really learned that. I have finally figured out that I just don't coexist with others very well. I'm best at being solitary. I seem to have a strong desire to be selfish with my time and be able to switch gears instantly when something is not going the way I want it to go. Also, because I have a strong--almost overwhelming sometimes--desire to avoid confrontation I tend to avoid getting myself into situations that create mental stress. I am too thoughtful and sensitive to deal with it well.

I have love inside me that it sometimes just screams to escape. I like to snuggle, I like to hug, and I like to intertwine bodies. I'm a very flirty person, but my flirting is generally without any plan or direction of any kind. Part of me means for it to be superficial, but another part of me hopes that someone I'm flirting with calls me on it and takes matters into her own hands. It's probably like going fishing without a hook on your line because you don't want to be faced with what to do with one if you do catch it.

I used to think sex was the goal. That's what we boys always joked and boasted about while growing up. The one-dimensional immediate gratification of sex. Honestly, I don't know if I have never met someone that filled me with the simple, animal desire to fuck her. To me that just seems cheap. What I do feel is the desire to be enveloped by her embrace. I want to both hug and be hugged. I want to touch her as I would wish to be touched myself. I want to undress her, run my hands over every inch of her body. I want to massage her, to celebrate her, to share her thoughts and feelings. But cheap sex doesn't work well with me. I think I'm afraid of too many things. Maybe I worry about performance or technique, or what happens after. That's it: The after. Do I want an "after?" Should there even be an "after?" What if only one of us wants an "after?" I guess besides the potential for failure, awkwardness, and embarrassment, sex also has a sense of finality for me. When it's over it usually feels over.

I hope the girl with the cowboy hat got what she was after that evening. Me? I guess I'm just an aimless fisherman who fishes without a hook.

My Own Enigma

I will never figure me out. Or maybe I have figured me out but I've shrugged my shoulders in resignation.

I am aimless. In life, in love, and in so many other things. I have found myself in or near so many important decisions in my life and have failed to close the deal. I just can't seem to do it. Closing the deal is a sales term, but it applies to many things that have happened to me over the years. Things that, had they gone a different way, would have altered my life or changed my destiny. Had I just been able to “man up” and speak my mind or state my desire at the crucial moment my life would likely be immeasurably different.

The classic, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” question for example. I'm 59 and I still can't answer it. Why? Because I'm aimless. I don't really have a direction. I'm not “goal oriented” like successful people are. My mantra is more like, “Whatever.”

Am I happy? I am happier than I have been in the last few years, but that is just a comparison. Am I happy? I am content. My life has an orderly predictability that fares well with a worrywart person like myself. But am I happy? I doubt it. I think I am happy, but if I have to keep asking myself if I am, am I really? Will I ever be?

I am restless but I don't want to do anything. I want to be with a woman that I can shower with love and affection, but yet–I want to be alone. I want to share things with others, but I want to be selfish too. I'm a bag of oppositions that seem to hold themselves together.

I feel like I am my own enigma.

Admiration

People I admire are unafraid. They proudly wear unnaturally-colored hair, have tattoos, and let their imaginations run wild. They are positive, unpredictable, and they recycle because they want to. They are equally at home in the city or the country. They know what's going on behind my eyes, know what to say at the right time, and can make me laugh when I need it. They love music, and might play piano, a cello, or an acoustic guitar. They appreciate simplicity and shun the "new and improved." They may not have one of their own, but they love animals. They have many stories to tell, and they know when to tell them and when not to. They are social, and yet they appreciate solitude. They are happy with themselves and won't ridicule someone else.

This is just a list I started jotting down one time for fun. Some of these are traits I possess, and others are not. Many times I find myself oddly jealous of other people that have different personalities than I do, then tell myself I have talents they do not have, know things they do not know, carry memories they have not shared, and have had a lifetime of different experiences than the ones they have had. I may not actually admire the person, but maybe I admire something they are able to do, or something they've accomplished.

Maybe they actually admire something about me.

The Old Man

It was a warm summer afternoon and the park was alive with activity. Children ran and played, their shrieks and laughter piercing the lazy afternoon. Their energy seemed almost alien to the unmoving adults that sat nearby with their solemn expressions and watchful eyes. As they watched the young versions of themselves, they tried to remember a time when they were the ones doing the running and shrieking. They sighed as they gazed.

Nobody paid any attention to the old gentleman as he strolled into the park. He carried a tattered violin case with bits of aged, yellowish leather showing plainly through wounds in its black outer coating. He was dressed plainly but was well groomed--his thin, frosty hair long but well kept. He looked like any other elderly park visitor, a person unconcerned with the passage of time. Had anyone been close enough to him they might have seen the mischievous glint in his watery, pale-blue eyes as they surveyed the setting. Seating himself carefully on a large rock near the edge of the manicured park lawn, he placed the violin case on the ground at his feet. Each of the latches made a soft clack as he flipped them open, and he lifted the lid of the old case and let it fall backward onto the warm grass. He slowly straightened back up, and with great deliberation and care, he removed his light gray jacket and folded it, placing it on the lid of the open case before him. Then he gingerly lifted a gleaming violin and placed it beneath his chin. Smiling to himself, he closed his eyes and gently drew the bow across the strings.

No sound came from the violin.

At that instant, every child in the park looked toward him, smiled almost imperceptibly, and went quickly back to what they were doing.

They instantly knew who he was and why he was there. They had never seen the old man before but they felt they had always known him. Though there was no sound, the children knew what came from his violin. It was not sound that an ear could perceive, but it was music. It was the music they experienced every summer day. It was the music of childhood, of summer. It was youth.

All of the adults were momentarily confused. They had no explanation for the strangeness that suddenly washed over them. They all paused and stared blankly in front of them as they tried to understand what was happening.

There was a feeling they couldn’t explain, a glowing warmth that filled their minds. They felt a pleasure--a sort of vertigo. It was a familiar feeling, but distant at the same time. Then they began to remember. The feelings of past memories began to return.

They remembered the smell of the golden, dry grasses of a summer field, and the feeling of dirty, bare feet running on a hard-packed path. They remembered screaming with delight as the cold water of the lawn sprinkler knocked the air from their lungs.

They remembered.

They remembered lazing under a tree and analyzing every fluffy cloud in the bright blue summer sky. They again heard the songs of the Popsicle man as he turned down their street, prompting them to scream "Mom! Ice cream!" and go running into the house, hoping for a dollar. They remembered the juice exploding from their mouth and running down their chin as they bit into the most perfect slice of cool watermelon in the world.

They smiled through closed eyes as they remembered.

They went whirling back to the dusty smell of a summer rain as they rode their bicycles as fast as they could pedal before the impending storm threatened to drench them. They remembered braiding their best friend's hair as they draped across the porch swing, each giggling while they shared something the boy across the street had said. They remembered lying on their stomach, inches from a beetle, gently prodding it and analyzing every detail about it as it tried to slink away.

Yes, they remembered.

The blast of noise when they poked their head out the open car window from the back seat--laughing as the wind blew through their hair, the time spent searching for the perfect shaped rock that would skip all the way across the river, that apple pie that grandma made!

They remembered it all.

They all smiled, eyes closed, as it all flooded their minds like a desert cloudburst filling a dry stream bed. They danced in their daydreams as the childhood experiences of summers burst to the surface from the dark depths of their memory. They found themselves again swirling with the giddy, carefree happiness of youth.

The old man opened his eyes, and smiling to himself, he slowed the bow and brought it to a stop. The magical song of youth slowly faded from their minds, its dying notes blending imperceptibly with those of the children playing nearby. The adults, no longer held by the spell of the violin, slowly woke from their youthful dreams. Momentarily disappointed, smiles slowly returned to their faces as they remembered what had been awakened by the magic. Bending down, they removed their shoes and socks, and let their toes feel the tickle of the sun-warmed grass. They smiled at the sensations as if they had suddenly found a long-forgotten room in their mind, a distant book that had been left behind and covered with dust and cobwebs. They reveled in the rediscovered feelings that washed over them. Standing up one by one, they began to move toward their children. Smiles growing, they walked more quickly, and broke into a run. They laughed and cried as they joined the youngsters at play. They played as children would play, their shrieks of joys mixing with those of their children.

The old man slowly placed his violin and bow back into the tattered case and put his jacket back on. He closed the lid, and grasping the handle, slowly stood up and watched the activity for a few seconds. Smiling, he turned and slowly shuffled back the way he had come.

The children all glanced at him briefly, thanking him silently for what he had done, and they turned their attention back to their new playmates. They hoped he would return some day when they were older--when they needed him.

When they needed to remember.