A rare turn Of Events

Sunday, May 25, 2008

I was supposed to be at Suba , and the fact that I'm not should reflect irresponsibility on my behalf. I'm in no mood to explain myself; it is, I believe, a useless task. Instead, I'll tell you the course of events that led me to not being there at Suba right now. When I say something, I usually mean it, and yet it was my choice not to go because, quite honestly, I was simply exhausted from having a wonderful afternoon. Century Twenty One, South Street Sea Port, Lexington and 59th street, Starbucks, tacos, cigarettes, and all the while dragging my soul in those cowboy boots I've been wearing for two days in a row. Actually, it wasn't just a lovely evening, it started the night before. I have slept only four hours in the last two days, and that isn't something as unusual to me anyway. I could have pushed it, in fact, I may get up from this bed and still venture into the night still. And I know it will be fun. Last night wasn't, and so I decided to appear forty-five minutes late to a date with a girl friend of mine. Thought I could have counted on her elusive nature to bail out but this girl called me and demanded to know where was I when I had already decided not to meet her. You were supposed to call me before, that was the idea. Now you wait. I used an austere tone, like a father-figure repremending a child. Up until that point, I had felt sluggish, luckily I had jumped in the shower, shaved, minimum amount of maintance. I didn't work out since I was still sore from the night out. So, I put the same jeans, and left. I had to pick a culprit and so I rushed to 59th and Lexington to meet her. I got there under forty five minutes. And I had in mind to get rid of the blue jeans I had on. I mean, these were the culprit: nothing felt quite as good as to stop, disengage from myself and clearly see that the only thing that wasn't as new and fashionable about me since the night before were those horrible outlived pair of jeans. They had killed my interactions the night before with the most gorgeous girl at this awesome lounge in the Bronx, Montecarlo. The girl was with three other gorgeous friends and I was surrounded by a sea of females in a slow Friday night. The one in question was literally dancing pressed against my back, as I nonchalantly sipped my drink. At one point, I walked up to her, stare into her eyes with a smile on my face and grabbed her hand. "Feel this" I told her, as I placed her hand on my bald scalp. Then I took her curls and said, "What can I do to have hair like you?" She was all smiles and her friends engulfed me. I was in. Suddenly, though, and for no reason, I retreated and abruptly left the scene of the crime. The girl stood there with a dumb fold look in her eyes. It wasn't my intention to cause her unease, and minutes later she and her friends left the club. All along, I had felt that my jeans were brand name, but old. And that they did not compare to my great pair of boots from Aldo, the priciest and most fashionable you can possibly imagine. And my shirt, flawless. All up until the moment I met Adeline on Lexington, I had not become aware of it. She noticed it on the spot. She was a bit unsettled, not saying much, and I couldn't find my ease. Suddenly, it dawned on me: I need to step out of this state of mind. And I found my culprit. The idea was to go to Century, since Adeline had never been there and had asked me to take her there almost a week ago, and then from there part ways. But I had an epiphany: I decided to buy me a good pair of jeans. And to top things off, a cowboy hat. Afterwards, I felt my mood change dramatically. And Adeline picked on it. We went for Starbucks, and sat outside. As we smoked a cigarette, I decided to change jeans right there in the middle of the street, about a block away from the former World Trade Center site. And I did, and Adeline was dying with laughter. "Oh, my God" she said. Sure, I guess you could blame God. But it was really those awful jeans. As soon as I took them off, I felt liberated. Of course, I wasn't naked and moments later, as if I were, Adeline started to show the signals of extreme arousal in a woman: she began to cling on to every word, match every one of my movements, laugh hysterically, touch me, pull me, push me, punch me, trip me, and not let me out of her sight. Her eyes began to burn way too much for a girl whom I considered since sometime a "buddy", and I was blunt, if I remember correctly, after two or three dates, when I told her she still had feelings for her ex-husband. She tried to tag me with the same stain of guilt, but I blew her off: "We men don't have cozy feelings" I told her. In Century, I busted her chaps still some more: "You lied to me! You said we were going to Disney World." People looked around, and laughed, others were somewhat taken aback. Somehow, she started trashing men, in general, as if I was outside the whole spectrum altogether. And so, I notice what I've said before to her, that attraction happens naturally and without having to push it, even among friends, especially among friends. I didn't say a word, and not that I was contemplating one thing and performing another except at the moment I was so caught up in the process that it is until now, as I write this sentence, that I have become aware of what was taking place. See, just because you kiss and hold hands doesn't mean that you have to do the same the next time around. Things have to naturally lead there, or else forcing it is what kills attraction and sets in routine. Lovers should never greet with kisses in the mouth unless that is how they feel about each other from the get-go; that way, the feeling is always as great as the first kiss. It has to lead there, and sometimes, due to stress or other elements weighing in, that is not the case. Of course, among those elements, the most common one is tension which arises from the feeling that two people who have kissed are not following the boring norm of kissing over and over again. We were making fun of such people that we came across. And sure enough, unexpectedly, it happened for us, naturally of course. And so, as we made our way to the subway to go back home, we decided to look for a place to eat. That's how we ended in South Street Sea Port and stayed roaming around, after we ate, sat out unto the starless night staring into the ocean, the city, the anchored ships, the joyous crowds. I had by then thrown out the jeans. Right before I stepped in the wooden territory where South Street begins for me, I placed them in a garbage can and never looked back. In my Myspace invitation (I used the Bulletin Format, I don't you, do you have a better idea?), it read that those who were not coming to the party I was co-throwing were not to be missed. Ironically, I will be the one who won't be missed, as I love to refer to those absent from sight. I'm not playing with words. When you miss someone, I think, you are actually missing moments shared with them when they were present, their being there at a time or another, and the fact that they no longer are. It occurred to me, then, another way of looking at it is, Whenever we are having a blast, whenever we are having fun and rejoicing in the presence of those that matter, we're setting ourselves up for potential misery. In other words, we're actually "missing" people right there. Does that make sense to you? You're out with friends, or having a great Kodak Moment, as I like to refer, with family, and then it strikes you: this moment is irreplaceable, and for the very experience of it you may later on miss people. Isn't that a tragic sentence you're irremediably condemning yourself for? It tells, really, of yet one more way in which we "love" to needlessly submit to personal torture. And so, as a rule of thumb, miss friends only when you're with them. Otherwise, continue to enjoy each superb, irreplaceable instance. It isn't just that moment that is irreplaceable. It is every living moment. And we should never find ourselves in the silly and torturous position of missing others or longing for a time long gone; we should always know that the possibility to create such moments lies within our grasp. Just pick up the phone, stir the waters, send some emails. Don't be passive about life. It isn't there for you to contemplate; it is there for the grabbing. And it's not a contradiction from having said before that I missed my ex and my kid. Not that I'm immune to such bouts of melancholy, but even there and then, in those rare occasions when I step outside the norm, I truly experience myself. In that moment, missing my kid and my ex, are really news to me. And that has already been experienced, and I'm a brand new man. That, experiencing things differently, taking a different route, doing something new, in my book, ranks higher than any sense of responsibility. I am responsibly irresponsible. And so now I'm out to enjoy my night in.