June 12th, 2006
(It's been a coon's age since I last got around to writing anything in my Rant-o-Rama, and I feel like I'm confessing in some vaguely Catholic way: "Forgive me world, it's been 11 days since my last rant ...")
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So my friend and former co-worker waxed long and expressively about her take on marriage, at least as it applies to her, and relationships that she has had and now has. It's my kind of blog entry, and it even started with her grandmother's engagement ring as the muse to get things rolling. I like to think that my rambling blog entries have had some influence on her writing, but I probably give myself too much credit.
And I suppose I should start my response to it with a muse all my own:
In 1996 I was just on the road to recovery: I was finally gainfully employed in a career that actually made me some money, I was mostly over the heart-shredding ending to my first marriage (being told by my wife that she had a boyfriend and she liked him better than me), and no longer terrified—in fact, now proudly telling the tale—of how I escaped the clutches of the Korean Immigration Police by doing a fly-by-night back to Canada. All remaining problems were of a minor nature at that time, one of which being what to do with my wedding ring. (See, Rena? Same muse.) I mean, it seemed kind of cheap to just pawn it off, but too maudlin to reuse it for any future marriages. So I just stuck it in a little box on my desk.
Then my apartment got burgled and, along with a guitar and amplifier, some computer equipment, a ton of CDs and a leather jacket, my wedding ring was stolen as well. I was actually relieved about the ring (only the ring, though). It actually solved that problem of what to do with it. (But I miss my guitar and other stuff ... hurts to think someone went through my place making a value judgement about it all ... but I slowly got over it, and replaced it all with better quality stuff over a lengthy period ... oh, and I got insurance too.)
In a somewhat awkward parallel, I was the same: I didn't know what to do with myself, either. Reuse myself for marriage, or just stick myself in a box and let me gather dust? I ended up "rejoining the fray" as it were, and after some false starts, slid into another relationship.
If I fast-forward to six years and a complete shambling ego-eroding nerve-melting relationship later, I found myself back in exactly the same position. This time, however, I opted for sticking myself into a box and letting the next 50 years of my life happen alone. So what if I would end up as one of those weird old guys who talk to themselves at work and live alone with a cat or a canary or some other little beastie? A lonely-based insanity looked so much better than being where I was: Catering to the ghostly shifting fears of women whom I foolishly tried to assuage instead of standing my self-respecting ground.
Well, what was I thinking?
That's a strange way to be.
'Cause I'm no good for you
If I'm no good for me
And now we feel lonely, frustrated, and sore
And neither of us knows what all of this madness is for!Bad way to be, you know: The more ground you give to someone's fears, the worse it gets for everyone concerned. And soon you start finding yourself snapping and barking because you are stretched into an untenable shape trying to keep the other person happy. Bad news all around. So, after dreadful experiences where I caved in to others' soft spots and ended up a cowering, quivering, hang-dawg thin shell of a former man, I boxed myself up with a label, "Funeral supplies, do not open."
I just wanted to wait that next 50 years of the long gently sloping road that led to the sea. It was sweet cool relief.
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Except, after the first year or two, it didn't happen that way at all ... but that's another story for another day!
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