I know better than to drink and write. It may have worked for beat generation writers and Edgar Allen Poe but who am I kidding? I don’t think there is enough alcohol or opium to make me write like those guys anywhere on this planet. Plus, everyone who reads this knows me. You will see me in the store buying kale in sunglasses. Yet, somehow I cannot resist this topic-writing about it and feeling it over and over.
So yes, a few gin and tonics into midnight and I will speak the obvious; there are only really two things in life. Those things are humor and love. They are filed exactly in that order.
This past weekend I met a man which covers the humor and the love in one sentence. For those who actually, really read this blog he was not someone from EHarmony. What a bona fide disaster that place is–it’s like last call at the worst bar on the beach. He was and probably is still beautiful to look at and has what appears to be a very good soul. He had only one serious problem from my point of view–he did not love me. He was willing to pretend for a nice one and a half act play but then the curtain fell and he was on his way.
The encounter and I don’t know, maybe the last forty years of my life or so have me wondering–am I the only one out here longing for the one hundred mornings of waking up to a particular brand of bad breath, to fifty negotiated Sunday plans and twenty five fights which end with..’no matter what you say I am still here’. I’m not talking about the fake it til you make it kind of love where your eye color is somehow “amazing” or you’re devoted until the sickness happens as in ” in sickness and health.” I’m talking about the kind that makes you feel special complaining about your love because you know you’re blessed to have someone so incredible to bitch about. The kind that notices the bruise on your backside or the fact that you love to dance or someone who will write a poem even if it sucks just to make sure you know, really know, that you are loved-not generally–but quite specifically adored even when your hair is a mess, maybe especially then.
I want to get up a little early and make coffee the way he likes it or be reminded where I left my fifteenth pair of reading glasses I’m always losing or have him whisper something vile and entirely inappropriate at the dinner table where there are other people I know. I want to cry about all I’ve lost and gained and be held even if I make no sense and I want to be chased with a feather or told I am ridiculous at Cross Word. I want also to look at his face and know I am in the presence of my personal Grand Canyon-someone so awe inspiring that despite his really bad taste in pants he makes me swoon like a swan when she meets her mate.
It’s not like I’m asking for the world–it’s more like the Universe. I get it. But here’s the thing, the point of this romantic drivel is- it really is better to have loved and lost. Once you know how to love not like Katie Perry but more like Yeats you have that knowing of what love feels like and how it acts even on a bad day. You know what it’s like to hold his face in your hands as he tries to finish his work or pass him and for no reason have to kiss the palm of his hand.
So my fellows who also closed the bar down, who got desperate enough for EHarmony which is far from harmonious or met someone who broke your already broken heart-take courage. You always have you to laugh at and trust me as I sit at my tiny desk in heels and skinny jeans about my latest mistake–you are just the kind of beer to cry in and then fall into in a fit of laughter. Life is not to be taken seriously and neither are we my dear one. Love will come or it will not. But tonight we have gin and tonic, each other and the fortitude to laugh at just the loserness of it all because no matter where you are you are winning some and losing some and loving some and crying some.
I know better than to drink and write-I know but I cannot remember what I know when my heart opens and I fill the space with drinking songs and thoughts of love.
My room is warm, my bed is cold and I’m afraid to go there alone. But I will. Tomorrow I will wake up and wonder…’dear God, tell me I didn’t really write last night..no I couldn’t have.’ Do me a favor–if I ask don’t tell me…just laugh about it and love me anyway. Because life is really only about two things–humor and love in that exact order.