Labor Day Party

My boss is overseas, but he wanted to set up a VERY IMPORTANT MEETING on the phone. We went over times, and it seemed that the best time was Monday 9:00 A.M. I also thought that having this meeting was VERY IMPORTANT, so I masochistically turned down many social opportunities for the purpose of talking over my project with my boss, whose input I genuinely value and to whom I am indebted to for agreeing with me on the project's significance. I made my way to the office at 8AM on Labor Day, prepped for an hour, and waited for another half hour. I did not have his European phone number.

Eventually I emailed him. I didn't hear from him for a while. Eventually I received an email in return.

Marcel,

I apologize. I realized it was Labor Day in America, and didn't think you'd be at the office. We'll have to chat later this week.

thanks!
Boss

Well yes, I thought to myself. I wouldn't be at work, if we hadn't arranged a meeting during this time.

Fucking unacceptable.

So, Tuesday was Labor Day for me. I stayed home from work today, for once feeling totally justified because I put in a full day yesterday out of spite. And then I celebrated by eating a lot, sleeping, reading books for pleasure, taking a fantastic bath in front of the television, and catching up with friends. I wouldn't have minded a barbecue, but my celebration was sufficient. It's nice when you can slack off without the guilt.

last week, cooling my jets

Last week was one of the shittier weeks I've had this year. In spite of the insomnia, I had one of the most productive weeks I've ever had at work. Additionally, I might be approaching a peak in physical condition I haven't seen since college sports. But, it was hard to enjoy these things when I could barely keep my head up, and when my exhaustion gave me this filmy pessimism that encroached on everything.

Then I had these three dates. For two of them, I felt tentative and lukewarm about even showing up. One was a girl I dated for a short time, and the other was a labmate from my undergraduate days who had just moved into town. For both, the conversation was fun, there was a lot of laughter, a little touching, the intimation that more time together would be welcome.

I left feeling lukewarm and tentative about ever showing up again.

The third date, with Wendy, was an unmitigated disaster. Of the the three, this was the only one where I thought it could turn into something, maybe. Wendy did not like me, to the point where, after I spent a few minutes with her, I was surprised she had even agreed to come out. Every conversational attempt I made was met with a passivity bordering on hostility. Eventually, I said "fuck it, not worth it" to myself and went home. These things happen. There are whole songs about this cliche, where no one I like is into me, and vice versa.

But, I was left doubting my ability to read people. How could I have possibly thought this woman was interested in me? What makes me think I'm into these people who I don't connect with? Could I think about any specific trait Wendy had that I was particularly drawn to? Then I remembered the infrequency with which I meet people I feel really attracted (beyond physically) too, and the number of times I've gotten myself into trouble from trying to force the issue. So, I figured I'd quit the dating, or at least cool it, for a while. I don't need to be throwing myself at people who aren't worth the time. I've got better things to do, like trying to get seven hours of sleep in a night.

Take it back.

I forgot about how insomnia catches up with you in the long run. Last night, it made a crushing return with feelings of self worthlessness, extreme loneliness that feels like it will be infinite, and defeatism. Tonight it's more of the same, with some head pain thrown in.

Oh, maybe I'll write more next time I'm feeling coherent. Rough couple days. . .professionally, romantically, et al.

Dinner was pleasant.

back to insomnia

Last night I went out with some old friends. Many of them were D.C. friends, some of whom were in town for a couple of days, and others who had given up there and relocated. After we got past the banalities of floor votes, burnt down bars, hawks, doves, Senatorial peccadilloes, and who's staffing who, we mellowed into a low key banter, a dark dive bar, silly jokes and invented dance moves. I went home late.

And woke up at 2:30 in the morning. I was not at all drowsy, feeling the onset of the insomnia I thought I had conquered a couple months ago. Instead of worrying, obsessing on all of the things I might not get down without at least a few hours of rest, I decided to just relax, and use this one productively. I did some low-key work, emailed old friends, drew up an outline for an article I will write someday. After a couple hours of this, my neighbor and friend, Hillary, came out on her porch. She was surprised to see me sitting on mine with my laptop. After a squint-eyed good morning, she said, "Are you up for the eclipse."
She pointed at the moon.
It was pretty nice looking, like someone had dripped caramel all over it. It felt warmer that way.
Hillary went back to bed. Eventually so did I. Today I've been irritable and easily distracted. I've wasted a fair amount of the work day. But that moon was pretty nice looking.

?

I stopped posting here a while ago. I felt like I was wallowing in it. I knew keeping a journal is supposed to be healthy, but I felt like I was using it as a tool for feeding my depressive side, for letting failed expectations run wild in my imagination to the point where they were feeling like the dominant part of my life. Now I'm not sure how to proceed. Part of Marcel Parcells likes scrutinizing these disappointing aspects, zooming in on them and getting closer to how they change my motivations, to why I feel this way or that way. Another part - and perhaps this is the part that believes he can he break horses and canter off into the night, prefers a more detached cynicism, an asshole, go-fuck-yourself, I may care but probably not really, arms length sort of attitude. So. . .where to go with this?

I recently drove across the country. I spent part of the trip mocking southerners, relaxing in the driver's seat, singing along to the worst possible music, and seeing how hot I could make the interior of my car. I spent another part, a large one, thinking a lot about the road trips I used to take with Janet, the most significant of ex-girlfriends, who is now taking trips with a man, who is to my impression, a monomaniacal gearhead athlete of the most boring kind. I called Janet from a lonely campspot in some west Oklahoma grassland, because I had been thinking so much about her I needed to try for contact. This was the first time we have talked in months. It was fun (comfortable), but disappointing, since she was doing that relationship thing where you take on some of the traits of your partner. She talked about scales that measured body fat, hiking twenty miles a day, weighing out your food to the gram, rationing, bear canisters, trekking poles, travel times. I wanted to interrupt the whole time and ask, "When did you play? Did you have any fun? Did you climb some trees, or skip rocks, or bet on which squirrel would lick your peanut butter covered finger?" Instead I just let it go, because for the most part, I ended the relationship, and I hurt her, so if she can be happy with someone I would hate. . .well, good for her.

It's just sad to see someone change for someone else.

newme

For the last week and a half I have been drunk, social, outgoing. I have danced on patios, in living rooms, on the street, and in the back rooms of bars. I have dressed as a “hot cop” and a lecherous mid-life college professor. I have flirted, yelled, broken glasses, grabbed my crotch. In the wake of these bacchanalian barbecues, bluegrass throwdowns, spring time hangovers, tequila brunches, and beer garden escapades, I feel content, to an extent. I have ignored unmindful Miranda, and this is ok. I have been offered a job in a distant desert, and this is great. I have renewed my faith in my ability to impress, to touch a woman’s hand and make her shiver, to grind with the grace of the inebriated, and to play the arrogant asshole, bullying cynic, wide-eyed buffoon, booty shaking glad handing smile man.
I have been drunk for days, and am tired all of the time. I haven’t done work for a week and a half. My eyes are always dry and sleep, though I get it, leaves me tired, cotton-mouthed, bleary. I am really just passing the time, and the nights move faster when the events are blurred by my sleepy, drunken eyes.

My history with Sybil, to date

I meet Sybil in a dive bar, delectably. After hours of conversation, we’ve drunk our blue ribbon beer and eventually begin kicking over tables and chairs. We end up in a vocal fight with some of the regulars. Righteously, they demand we have respect for their bar. We argue that blowing off steam by kicking off some shitty yet sturdy chairs isn’t hurting anyone. Fingers are pointed, voices are raised. Progressively, people get involved until there are several knots of patrons shouting in each others’ faces. It’s like a whirlpool has broken up into several smaller, angry eddies, like when a baseball brawl transitions from one large scrum to several dueling pairs. I am kicked out of the bar and I can’t see Sybil. I walk home.

She and I are at the same party, and drunk again. Everyone’s trading clothing with each other; it’s a melee of garment swapping, and I emerge in orange. I’m wearing a too-tight orange t-shirt that says “I Love Carbs!” on it, orange tube socks, orange underpants, an orange bandana, and two slippers that were made to look like basketballs. Sybil is in red. I dance in my underwear, shaking my luminous ass. It’s raining, but everyone’s outside in socks, flip-flops, slippers, bare feet. Sybil is preparing to attack a piñata. I stand behind her and tie a yellow cummerbund around her head, putting a pair of green swim goggles over it to hold it fast. I’m wondering where all of these accessories came from while Sybil’s assaulting a Paper Mache Spongebob Squarepants with a broomstick. The small crowd cheers when she breaks the broomstick over the piñata, spilling Mexican hard candies and wooden splinters all over the wet sidewalk and lawn. The inevitable scramble ensues, made messier by sodden grass, alcohol, and lustiness. There is more dancing. Before she leaves, I ask for her phone number. She says, ‘oh good, we’re friends now.” I say yes.

I never call.

Sybil is at the coffeehouse, working. I am stretching a sore shoulder, left arm over right clavicle, head pivoted. I see her in the corner, watching me. We talk for a moment and I cut the conversation short with an abrupt goodbye. I return to my table. I wonder if I’ve hurt her feelings.

So I return to her table, using my exit from the shop as an excuse to stop by. This time, I grab the back of a chair, she takes her feet off of it, and I sit down. I am overcaffeinated and am talking in a rapid, attention deficient patter, but she’s laughing, so I’m sticking with it. She smiles appealingly. After a few minutes, I am leaving again. She invites me to her birthday party. I tell her I’ll be there . . .hopefully. Am I being coy? I don’t know.

And then I have these dreams. For an entire night it’s the same dream, or at least variations on the same dream. Sybil is there and she’s holding a four-year-old boy. The boy is my son and I’ve just become cognizant of his existence. I waver between confusion as to how I could have conceived this child, excitement at the prospect of raising my son with Sybil, and apprehension on how we’ll manage this boy, this burden. I wake up exhausted.