I don’t tend to suffer peeps who dish up apathy as if it’s homemade mac and cheese. Because life is unforgiving enough, and I happen to think that if you’ve arrived at an age where you can legally rent a car, you’re doing better than you probably imagined you might. So yanno, quit blaming everything and everyone else.
So it was that I was asked for my opinion on someone else’s particulars recently, and the preamble had me wishing I’d called in sick. She’s a pleasant enough young lady, pushing thirty with a vengeance. By this I mean, she’s angry at the fates for not having prescribed her domestic patent replete with matrimony and motherhood. An annual trip to the Caribbean would be peach, but she’d settle for a showplace to staycation in because she ain’t greedy.
I learned all of this over the course of a ten minute conversation, and while it’s ten minutes I ain’t ever getting back, at least I collected a post out of the deal. So there’s that.
When she arrived at the gritty of the nitty, his name was Pete. And he was many things, none of them rhyming with Prince Charming. I wasn’t able to get a word in edgewise as she recited the numerous offenses perpetrated by a guy whose crimes didn’t seem to warrant a trip to Nuremberg.
“So it was all him?”
“This guy. The reason you guys didn’t work out was entirely his fault?”
“Well . . I mean . . I’m not saying I’m perfect . . ”
“Of course not, but that’s not what I’m asking. What I want to know is, did you take an inventory of your shit and his shit?”
I proceeded to explain that it’s usually shared shit that sinks the ship. Unless he was beating on her (he wasn’t), in which case she would have had every right to take his ass out. And I’d have brought the shovels, lime and a bottle for the adjudication of the sonofabitch.
Short of that, I told her that the bogeyman application doesn’t work. Subconsciously, you’re burning your own bridge by manifesting this skewed portrait of a person who is no longer in your life. You’re actually questioning your own judgement without even knowing it, thereby stunting your emotional growth. And that kind of cycle only gets more vicious as time goes on.
“Own your shit. Be thankful for the experience and move on . . .”
It was all I could think to say, because it was evident she was going to choose option whatever else. Which is why I never understood why people ask for advice when what they’re really asking for is consensus.
I applied this same line of questioning to my friend Barry. His love thing is flickering into obsolescence on mortal coils whose romance done left the building long ago. And he suffers from the same affliction as most peeps who find themselves in the relationship checkout line. Shocked by the purchase of forever as if the individual they’re gonna Paul Simon out of their life came with a money back guarantee.
“You chose the drama you speak of, knowing full well that it wasn’t going to be nearly as adorable once you had to share basically every fucking thing,” I said.
“Yeah but I thought things would change,” Was his response.
That’s the Vegas lock response, every time.
“Did you ever think that maybe it’s your fault as much as hers?”
“Yeah . . .” He chuckled, with not even a hint of believability to it.
“Hey man, if you’re getting off the pot . . just do it. There’s nothing sadder than a grown ass man crying about how unhappy he is. Move to the Poconos and become an outdoors man and start a YouTube channel and stop whining about how some woman did something to you that you really did to yourself,”
I would’ve gone on, but I was out of liquor.