I have this distinct memory in the back of my head as I start this particular blog piece. I remember some dude telling me that he was under the weather and would ‘try me later.’ Then I remember him vanishing and then I remember him showing up a week later. He proffered no explanation or apology. Just a ‘hey’ floating around my text inbox.
This made me think. A ton. Not because I really gave a shit about this person, at all. Not because I was bent out of shape about the rudeness or the fact that I would have to go back to the drawing board from a dating stand point, because that’s not so important to me generally. Nothing like that. Because his behavior spoke to a bigger problem. One that I’ve addressed before but one that bears repeating and revisiting because it seems to be a plague infecting our society (I know, choice of words-sorry).
I am not certain if he’s a rude person so I can’t really make any sort of declaration. I don’t know if he’s neglectful, forgetful, or just a total piece of shit. What I can tell you is that he clearly subscribes to a line of thinking that I’ve run into time and again, particularly when it comes to dating.
Before I explain where I’m coming from, I feel like it’s important that I share with you that I don’t hold out thoughts or hopes for some Bridgerton like relationship scenario. I have no fantasy that involves some sort of wholly romantic spectacle or behavior coming straight out of the good (/better) ol’ days. I do, however, have some basic standards when it comes to human interaction. Those standards extend to romantic and platonic interactions and I’m fairly certain they were ingrained in me around the age of 5 or so.
My parents taught me, and others in my life reinforced the sentiment, that there is some bottom line respect or cordiality that should apply when two people interact with each other. It was made clear to me that these rules were not predicated on mutually held positive feelings. What do I mean by that? Well, the liking of a person or vice versa was irrelevant when it came to contemplating these rules. There was no ‘out’ clause or excuse that began with some diatribe on what a piece of shit this other human was/is. Polite conversation is reserved for everyone. You can get spicy for sure and you can speak your mind, but it should all be under the umbrella of civility.
I know I’ve spoken about civility recently so rest assured that is not the intention of this post. I mean it is, but also, it isn’t.
I am concerned about the degradation of human interaction. Not just from the standpoint of civil versus uncivil communication. It’s bigger than that. Something about technology or the state of the world or all of the above has somehow landed us in a place where we just don’t give a shit anymore.
I know that I am occasionally old fashioned in my view on things but that’s not where I’m coming from at all. I don’t resist times changing and the adaption that has to occur, at all. I do resent that something seems to be lost in that so-called progress lately. Ultimately, we seem to be regressing and not really progressing.
Everything is short hand and short cut and onto the next and then maybe dipping back, boldly and unapologetically. No thought of the offense or damage. Worse. The presumption that the receiver of such attention will be grateful and receptive. Thank you so much for getting in touch after days/weeks/months, out of the blue and with no elucidation regarding where the fuck you’ve been and what made you come back. I promise you that there are times I just wish someone would be like “sorry, I thought I had met someone better so I was trying that out, but it turns out, she wasn’t better, so I’m back.” Have you ever felt that way?
I know that you might be cringing right about now. No one wants to admit that they’ve contemplated such a thing. We shy away from the kind of honest that makes us squirm. Why? Well, what if after we hear such a thing, we are like, okay, cool. That’s fine. And we decide to give it a go? Will people judge us? Will we judge ourselves? There is so much overthinking that occurs in these situations. Basically, I think that we find it easier to sit with the notion that someone is a fucking magician, disappearing and reappearing with a smile and a handful of old, stinky silk flowers.
We are afraid and also, we’ve now made acceptance of this behavior a thing. It’s a funny meme. A shared sentiment. Oh, that happened to you? Me too. I get it. LOL.
WHAT?! Laughing out loud?! Nothing about some dick disappearing and then reappearing feels particularly funny to me. I agree that you have to have a sense of humor with these things, but within reason. The sense of humor bit means not being taken down by it. I don’t think it extends to being a human door mat or settling for something far less than what we desire in life.
Do I have to say at this juncture that I am not a bitter single woman? Have we sorted that out yet between all of us? I’m not. In fact, I had a spectacular conversation with a close friend last night where I told her I’m not sure about the whole dating thing generally right now. COVID aside, I think it’s just something I want to press pause on until I figure out what’s what. So, not desperate or sad or anything of the like. I’m just a person who is taking a closer look at the way we engage with each other and the shit we take from each other. I’m just a person who knows that she can’t change the world, but she can determine how she operates in the world and what shit she agrees to accept from the people in her orbit. I’m just a person who has been looking around and thinks constantly that we can do better and be better.
If something doesn’t bother you, really, that’s awesome. You don’t have to let things irk you or not based on what I say or what anyone says, for that matter. What I am saying is that if something does twist your knickers, open your mouth and do something about it. Demand more. Raise the standard. Why the fuck not? We only have one life, ya know?
THIS IS WHERE I WAS SUPPOSED TO STOP AND THEN POST THE FOLLOWING DAY–OOPSIE x
I was introduced to Mary Gaitskill through a movie, Secretary, which starred James Spader and Maggie Gyllenahaal. Boiling it down, (if you haven’t seen it) this indy film is a BDSM love story that involves a dominant lawyer and a submissive secretary. As racy and yet inexplicably charming as the movie is (sorry, not sorry- I loved it), it is really a much sweeter version of the short story. If you are a short story person, such as I am, I recommend you give it a read. It is part of a larger collection entitled ‘Bad Behavior’. I didn’t love all of the stories, but I connected to a few and certainly extrapolated a few golden nuggets in my read, such as the following: “At times she had thought that this was the only kind of connection you could have with people—intense, inexplicable and ultimately incomplete.”
I fucking love that. Why? Well without any context at all needed, it tells us that we learn behavior through our experiences. We create paradigms and constructs because of our interactions. When we encounter some thing, some conduct, some actions, enough, we assume that is how it is.
You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?
I was in fifth grade or so and I was invited to a friend’s house for dinner (name withheld to protect the innocent- okay FINE it was Meghan). Her mom served meat, potatoes, and milk. Motherfucking milk. I started at the beautiful glass filled to the brim with white, viscous liquid and was absolutely perplexed. We didn’t drink milk in my house. Not since it was poured into a bottle or sippy cup. I nearly dry heaved at the table. No joke people. What the fuck was I supposed to do? I was raised to be polite, to everyone, particularly adults. How could I kindly tell Meghan’s mom to take her milk and shove it?
I didn’t. But you know what I also didn’t do? Drink the milk. Not a sip. Not a drop. That milk sat untouched for the entirety of the meal. I thought I was scot-free and then we were all cleaning up the table (yes, I helped- manners). Meghan’s mom looked right at me and said: “you weren’t thirsty tonight dear?” I paused. This was my moment. Do I run with this comfortably leading question and just say no? Well, I can tell you that although I’ve told a lie or two or ten in my life, it seemed pretty fucking farfetched to claim that a meal of red meat, mashed potatoes that came from a box, and peas and carrots drenched in real deal butter wouldn’t make me thirsty. Not thirsty? I was the kind of thirsty that prompts sticking your head under a fucking faucet like a dog at a broken hydrant.
“I’m sorry Mrs. ______, but we don’t drink milk in my house.” I felt my face light up. Not in a good, glow-up kind of way. Think tomato. A face alight with shame. I wasn’t embarrassed that I didn’t drink milk (or was I?), but more so that I went through an entire meal with that glass of Elmer’s glue in front of me and never said a goddamn word. She sighed. Not with exasperation but with kindness and compassion. She told me that it was fine. She understood that some homes didn’t care for milk as a dinner time beverage (um, ever- thanks) and felt badly that I didn’t say something sooner. She then stuck a new glass into the realm of the sink and provided me with a tall tumbler of manna from heaven- Long Island tap water. Straight from the aquifers to my poor overwhelmed taste buds.
I was so grateful. Didn’t seem like a good time to mention that we also never ate roast beef, dad made mashed potatoes from scratch (because mom rarely cooked), and while I love a good snap pea, I hadn’t eaten a straight up pea since the last time I had a freshly made chicken pot pie. I know what you are thinking. High maintenance bitch. Not really. Just how I was raised, what I knew, and what I know.
I’m going to stick with the food theme for another minute because I love me some food and also, this other story flows perfectly with the point I am trying to make. My sister called the other night as I was preparing my nightly dessert. Yes, nightly dessert. Go ahead and judge me. It makes me gloriously happy. I’m often convinced that outside of the mental health benefits, I only work out so I can eat dessert. Anyway, she asked what I was “making” and I told her that I was having a scoop of strawberry Halo Top with a crushed gluten free Oreo (or two) and some peanut butter. She suggested it sounded amazing (it was) and asked how the gf Oreos were, if they tasted like the original. Then, without waiting for an answer she said: “I guess you probably don’t really know, right?”
Spoiler alert: she wasn’t referring to my gluten allergy, at all.
She followed up with “I was just telling someone the other day that we were more of a Frookie and Snackwell house then an Oreo and Chips Ahoy home. What the fuck were in those weird Snackwell cookies anyway? Like chocolate and all the chemicals. All of them.” I laughed. She laughed. We laughed together, because it was true. We grew up with fruit juice flavored cookies and fruit leather and rice cakes. I had veggie burgers for dinner before they were a commonly found menu item and the only time we drank soda was at holiday celebrations (where my sister and I commenced drinking ALL the soda- which I do not recommend, at all). Please understand that we were not a pre-Goop, Goop family. Just the product of a coupla hippies who happened to be foodies. Not fancy foodies. Just real food foodies.
Is this a food blog? No, it is not. This is where I explain to you that there was nothing wrong with Meghan and her fam drinking milk with dinner (well, kind of, but yeah), but it seemed fucking bizarro world to me because it was completely contrary to any experience I had ever had in my life. We didn’t drink milk with dinner or ever. Milk was for cereal and coffee. Nothing more, nothing less. And certain cereals were only meant for being grabbed by grubby hands, sans milk.
Okay, I know…too much food talk. You’ll just have to wait for tomorrow to hear the rest, I guess.
L.
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