Cool, Calm & Contentious - Merrill Markoe [18]
Either way, my edict of “Never again” gradually morphed into “Never again unless I get married.” My thinking was that if I could take that additional step toward greater permanence, a step that had always eluded me, I would undergo an almost mystical transformation from confused member of the minority of loners and weirdos into the safer territory of the majority, with their holy matrimony, lawsuits, divorces, and mutual restraining orders.
Someplace in the middle of my confusion about what step I needed to take next, and long after I had given up entirely, I attended a theatrical event where I met a man who seemed funny and smart. We began exchanging quippy emails. Because this guy was in a happy relationship at the time, the emails weren’t flirtatious, just entertaining, especially after they escalated into a storytelling contest to see who could rightfully claim the title of the all-time biggest idiot in the name of love. I began the contest knowing I would win, but became alarmed when I realized that his stories were turning out to be a lot more dire and catastrophe-filled than mine. Still, I knew I would triumph anyway, because I planned to claim to have been an accomplice to a homicidal crime of passion. Why not? This guy didn’t know me. He didn’t know my history. How could he prove me wrong?
Fortunately, the contest ended before I had to transform old plots from CSI: Miami into convincing personal anecdotes. By then I had begun to realize that our emails had become the only coherent nuanced conversation I was having with a two-legged polysyllabic creature on a regular basis. They were a reminder that I, as a human being, had a need to communicate in ways more layered and complex than simple ball throwing.
Therefore, when his girlfriend left and he became single, I had no hesitation about dating this guy. And when I say “date,” I mean wake up at two in the morning to accommodate his late-night schedule as a musician. His workday started when I was finishing dinner.
“No, no, three A.M. isn’t too late for a visit,” I would lie as I searched my cabinets for a box of Vivarin. Then, having consumed in pill form the equivalent of ten cups of coffee, I would shower, put on makeup, and whip up a little entrée I hoped he would find half as impressive as the dogs found my mostly empty salad bowls. Spending a decade alone, as it turns out, makes a person more amenable to the idea of thin-slicing mushrooms for chicken marsala at three in the morning.
After so many years of isolation, I kind of enjoyed the late-night activity. I began to realize that there were advantages to older love. For instance, by the time this guy met me, I could actually cook something more complicated than oatmeal.
Once things between us started percolating, I found that stepping into the relationship arena at the cusp of (some age or other) was quite a different experience than it had been in previous decades. Younger love, it seemed, was mainly about the idea of potential—the illusion that magical transformations were bound to occur when the person you think you love has a miraculous unprompted awakening after some metaphorical lightning bolt, made out of your wishes and projections, suddenly brings them to their senses. On the other hand, older love is all about what you are hoping is still possible, after you have mourned the death of the idea of yourself as a manufacturer of miracles. Older love starts with the unpleasant truth that expecting a person to change for the better spontaneously, simply because you wish it, makes as much sense as counting on the lottery for next month’s rent.
My new gentleman caller