She's Writing a Novel

One of the lovliest things in the world is to be held in someone's arms as you both fall asleep, to hear yourself rambling on about everthing and nothing as your tired mind races toward stillness, and to hear their slight murmurring indication that they are listening, just barely, but to every word nonetheless.

I've never been to a real dinner party; but then, I'm just now at the age where dinner parties become part of the social repetoire. Americans don't do dinner parties, really; they do the idea of dinner parties. At least, this is what I've heard from people who've attended such things.

Apparently, the Young Adult Dinner Party is the social equivalent of the Bad High School Play, brimming with forced and stilted performances. Everyone is fixated on how they are supposed to act, and what they are supposed to say. Everyone pretends to know something about wine and cheese, and while no one actually knows anything about politics or current events or history, this is discussed enthusiastically; everyone has an articulate ignorant respose to someone else's articulate ignorant statement. Playful banter is discouraged; sexual suggestion is forbidden. Even if you are the designated Foreigner Invited for Purposes of Displaying the Worldly Sophistication of the Hosts, you can only get away with so much bawdy behavior before people start squirming in their seats.

I'm not entirely sure why young adults hold these excrutiating soirees. In part, I suppose, it's to show off their aquiring adult wealth; a new house or condo, pricey wedding china, expensive minimalist furniture. Young adults need to tour each other's homes to get a feel for what keeping up with Jones's is going to entail. They especially want to observe their couple friends in domestic action, so they can either go home to feel smug about their superior relationship, or so that their frustrations are vinidcated and she can go home to belittle his laziness and insensitivity and he can complain about her cooking and her low libido.

And I think that part of the reason these events are so awkward is the curve of the transition. The same people that spent their early twenties drunk on beer and shots, groping strangers, and up until all hours in dirty bars and frat houses are suddenly trying to spend a quiet evening sipping wine with new spouses while holding intellectual discussions. I think the infuriating tension you feel at a young American dinner party is the collective desire of all those in the room to strip down to their underwear, fling the plates off the table, and set up a game of beer pong.

I read my old blog sometimes, like going back to read an old diary. I am always surprised by the amount of whining. I remember that I was often depressed, frustrated, and exhausted in my early twenties. I put all my energy into achieving perfect grades in college to avoid the facts that I had a dysfunctional love life, a difficult family life, and an awkward social life. A near-perfect GPA was an accomplishment that I wrapped my arms around and clung to, even as so much else in my life was making me miserable.

There was a transition sometime in my mid-twenties, and while there were too many changes to count during that time I think the biggest was a change in perspective. And the most significant difference there is that I stopped allowing myself to whine about events or circumstances in my life. Those circumstances became better in some ways, harder in others; but I promised myself that my response would always be, if not one of gratitude or resolve, then at least one of perseverance. I told myself that there were basically two acceptable options when it came to facing something unpleasant: change the unpleasantness, or shut my mouth and deal with it.

Actually, it was probably the Russian lover that told me that and I just decided to listen.

Whoever's idea it was, it has ultimately led to greater happiness and contentment. I know that it is up to me to change things for the better, and that until I am ready to make changes I have no excuse to sit around and whine, and will gain nothing from doing so anyway.

Which is not to say I've given up criticism or bitchy and judgemental observations about the world. I am a cynic by nature. It's a shit world as often as not, but that doesn't mean I have a shit life. I think that's what genuine happiness is; the ability to carve out a beautiful life from the stinking pile of awful that so often threatens to smother us.

I used to think the Russian lover was a hedonist. Now I know that the Russian lover is a hedonist. And I know that i am too, and I know that it is a wonderful thing to be. During the recovery from my accident, I stopped entertaining "deep" thoughts. I didn't need then to ponder the mystery of living, because holy shit I was just so happy to be alive.

I had a close friend drift away during that time, and she later told me it was because I had lost interest in subjects like theology, philosophy and the like. I didn't want to spend hours discussing meaning. I wanted to pour myself a glass of vodka, put on a ditsy movie, then later dance in my underwear and laugh at dirty jokes. In short, I had become a shallow person.

I had no response for her; I couldn't explain it. I'd always lived my life as a deep person, and I knew that just meant you were in greater danger of drowning in the brackish waters of your own pretentions. I'd stepped to the line of my own mortality, and I was lucky enough to step back. And I did learn the meaning of life. I learned that the meaning of life is to live. And to live for today. Because yesterday and tomorrow are just abstractions, and now is your only chance to eat, drink and be merry. But I am happy to let others have their thoughts in the clouds; when they are done with that, I will pour them a glass of wine and invite them to finally feel the grass under their feet.

Saturday night the Russian lover and I went out for drinks and dinner and meandering through the city. To celebrate what would probably be the last warm night of the year, I put on a new dress. The dress was sold as a shirt, which is to say it was not much of a dress. (My definition of a dress is anything which clears the bottom of my ass. The Russian lover's definition of a dress is anything which might potentially clear the bottom of my ass.) The Russian lover wore a suit, because he always wears a suit.

Walking arm in arm down Walnut St. where people were heading to and from dinner, we were lost in conversation when a short middle-aged white guy came running across the street and leaped in front of us. Fortunately, he looked like a stereotypical former hipipe/suburban baby boomer and not a cracked out mugger, so the Russian lover's reflexes did not kick in; otherwise, with the way he startled us, he might have found his head kicked in.

The man apologized profusely for interrupting us, and then declared that he felt compelled to inform us that we were an absolutely stunning couple, just absolutely gorgeous, so stylish, and did we know this?

Um. Yes? No? ThankyouverymuchWhatdoyouwantyoucreepyman?

When confronted by awkward compliments or grand gestures, my face freezes into a benevolent and slightly condescending smile. It's a defense mechanism, I think -- an attempt to mask the fact that I'm not sure whether to be delighted and amused or whether to run away. The Russian lover, on the other hand, just squints and slowly, deliberately brings a cigar to his mouth, as if waiting for the other party to wither under his cold scrutiny.

The guy rambled on a little longer, asking where we were from. Because people in Philadelphia just don't look like us, he explained. Don't we know it.

In Philadelphia, dressing up to go out makes you feel like the kid in an 8am college lecture who bothered to put on clothes while everyone else showed up in their pajamas. I never thought I could go outside nearly naked and feel overdressed, but this city has made it possible. And you know it's that bad when total strangers chase you down to tell you so.

I think on some levels, people really do yearn for apocolypse. Sure, it means terror, evil, ugliness, chaos, and worst of all, change. It's not a good thing. But. At the same time, people are drawn to the clarity it brings. The superficial and the secondary must be thrust aside, and everyone has the opportunity to feel their back against the wall, to decide what really matters. The chaff blows away from our lives; we remember how big love is and we discover what it means to fight for life.

No one wants this scenario. No one would choose it. But there is, in some some sense (if our Hollywood blockbusters are any indication), a collective cultural longing for it. Or maybe it's just a longing to feel like it's OK to say "the hell with x, y, and z."

This is probably just the intertia of our modern, advanced society. Survival, by now, is pretty much a given. Now it's all about how you accessorize your survival. We don't conciously realize what a luxury and a gift it is to live this way.

So why are we so enchanted wth apocolypse stories -- with movies where life and good must fight and fight and don't enjoy anything but the possibility of survival and a shot at victory?

Perhaps it's not "meaning" we seek in our malaise of modernity so much as imperitive...for our lives to have urgency and real danger. Morbid..perhaps...or maybe after millenia of living in such a tooth and claw way, we're having trouble adjusting to lif as something so mild in its daily threats and challenges. Death is an occasional, not a constant, foe. And we feel like workaholics dumped on vacation -- stressed, bored, and confused. The thrill of outrunning immenent danger and impending death was our fuel for thousands, millions of years. And now, for most of us, our fuel is just Starbucks.

It seems like everybody thinks Seinfeld is, like, the funniest show ever.

But you don't think it's all that funny. In fact, you think it's pretty annoying. And now that you really think about it, you realize you actually can't stand that show.

But you can never admit this in polite company. Because here in America, only humorless deviants could not like Seinfeld. How could you not like Seinfeld? You've learned to nod and smile when people recount their favorite episodes. "Oh yeah, that was so funny!" you hear yourself saying. But you don't know what they're talking about, because you've never been able to watch more than five minutes of a Seinfeld episode before you start to feel downright agitated.

And sometimes it's lonely to feel like you're the only person who understands what Seinfeld really is: obnoxious people trying too hard to rip hilarity from ordinary life by being as unnecessarily quirky as possible.