Isle of Rob

The newspaper said scientists are nuking an island.   Ok, maybe nuke is a little strong.  They’re just giving it an animal enema, how’s that?  That’s what the LA Times said, and I trust them.  They may share yellow snow, but they won’t show me yellow journalism.

 

This weekend, they were showing me a green island—green and rocky.  See, there’s this little island between Australia and Antartica.  I don’t remember it’s name, but I’m sure that it’s an aboriginal word meaning “little craggy rock between Australia and Antarctica.”

 

“I name this island ‘Rob!’”

 

As the black and white story goes, this island is an old island with really cool rocks.  Supposedly they grow them there.  No really, the rocks jut up from the Earth’s mantle and literally grow.  This is ideal for all sorts of projects, especially those that require rocky surfaces.  Sacrificial altars, casting the first stone, Yahtzee tourneys, all are great things served on the rocks—and this island has them.

 

In the early 1800s, ships used the island for clubbing seals and gutting penguins.  It was apparently quite the skinning hotspot.  Ships would sail from all across the globe just to kill their animals there. Captain Stubing chartered his first Love Boat there, and I think it may have been the home of the first Starbucks, before Seattle seahawks carried those away to foreign shores.

 

Anyway, amidst all the good time seal clubbing, stopping ships would unload stores of wheat and dried goods so that there would be food for their next stop.  And where the wheat goes, so go the rats.  Yup, they bolted from the boat like rats from a…well, I have a sinking suspicion you get the idea.

 

Anyway, once the rats hit land, they did what rats do best: They ate bread and bred.  Since the local ecology consisted of a few forms of small birds, the unnatural rats didn’t have any natural enemies, and were left unmolested to eat, drink, and molest the landscape like packs of industrialists.

 

This wasn’t a problem for the sailors; they were sea faring men who’d seen molesting before. This wasn’t their first orgy; it was just another plunder walk off the plank. Sailors had ruined eco-systems before, and they knew what salves cured what itch: the next trip, they brought prides of cats.  The cats ate the rats that ate the malt that sat on the island that Earth built.  Problem solved.

 

Not really.

 

See sailors are fun guys with many weird customs.  Another strange sailing custom is that after sailors introduce cats to an island, they bring rabbits.  Now, I suppose it could be argued that rabbits are there to feed the cats, but I could have sworn that that’s what the rats were for.

 

So after several years, the cat’s and the rabbits learned to live in harmony like the RIAA and music pirates: sure the cats gang-pounced the occasional rabbit, but when you breed like bunnies, what’s a missing cottontail or two?  Both cats and rabbits flourished.

 

By this time we’re into the late 1900s and science has come a long way.  Hoping to undo the four-legged havoc they’ve already reaped on the tiny island, scientists introduce a virus-carrying flea that only affected the rabbits.  Kill the rabbits kill the problem, right?  Wrong.

 

 See, sure, the rabbits dwindled, but the cats are still hungry.  Remember those two types of indigenous birds I mentioned in the beginning?  They’re now what we non-scientists like to call “extinct,” thanks to the foreign cat.

 

“ooops!  My bad, “ says Bob the Scientist, as he sets back to the ol’ drawing board.

 

Scientists didn’t count on something else: the islands rabbits will to live.  They’d apparently seen the instructional film “Jurasic Park” and learned to, evolve.  Darwin and his Beagle would be proud; the rabbits are no longer susceptible to the poison flea pill.

 

These Movie lovin’ bunnies celebrated they’re victory, and after reciting the president’s speech from the end of “Independence Day,” the rabbits devoured the remaining island flora.  Now the island rock is well, just a rock.  

 

Stuck between a rock and a barren place, scientists have decided if the natural habitat can’t live on the island, nothing can.  They’re next mission is to exterminate all the cats, rats, rabbits, and impotent fleas.

 

As most Rob stories, this one has a point: No man is an island…until he’s divorced.

 

After divorce we’re craggy rocks jutting out of the horizon between landmasses.  Sometimes well-intentioned seal clubbers land and change our habitat, when we’re most susceptible.  Other times we convulse and shake until everything that defined us as married falls away, leaving a new heated magma shape, not like the old one atoll.

 

The problem is that in our violent rebirth we destroy the delicate balance that makes us who we are. We’re not destroying our insignificant other, we’re pillaging the person we spent years perfecting.

 

Divorce is difficult.  It’s natural to want to shake things up, but sometimes it’s important to be island stoic and wait out the plunder so that we can save ourselves. Don’t throw out the indigenous birds with the rat poo by introducing new predators.

 

It’s better to take stand on who you are rather than leaping to knee-jerk solutions. We all have good and bad, and I’m all about bettering myself, but not at the cost of things that make me fun for sailors.  I still want to be a colorful place to club seals.

 

“Hello Sailor!”

 

And when the waters are rough, I like to know that people can find shelter. I wouldn’t throw that out to spite MyEx, no matter how turbulent things got. I’ve waited things out, and I like the island paradise that’s left.

 

“I name this island ‘Rob!’”

 

Reading In Between Craigslist.

“I have a 14” bearded dragon.”

That’s funny, I have a 3’ yardstick that says I’m grossly inadequate.

 

I’m searching Craigslist.com for Cosmo’s paw print, but all I’m finding is confusion. Some people post with specific needs while others post ambiguous signs asking for trouble.

 

“Lonely Teenager Needs A Companion.”  That’s posted under “Pets.”  Somehow I’m guessing the predator to pet ratio here is a little high, but I am betting she did get lots of calls.  At least the line was busy when I tried calling.

 

What? Don’t look at me that way?  I didn’t use my phone.  I called using one I found on Craigslist.  Besides, what ever happened to the good old days when you could say, “I want a dog “? 

 

I think that communication is one of the biggest problems with our society today.  People don’t say what they want, and then get upset when your ESP is substandard.  I think that’s why Picasso was a Cubist.  Who could argue with him?

 

“Pablo, I wanted a velvet Elvis.”

“It is.”

“Oh, ok.  I can see that…”

 

Truly he was a genius ahead of his time.  Me, I’m just a man and his blog looking for a little lost dog.

 

“Do you love horses?”

Not without currency changing hands…

 

Do you know that if you Google “rod iron fences” you’ll find them?  That’s funny since they don’t exist.  The term is “wrought iron.”  Why is it wrought? You’d be bent out of shape if people tried to drop you from the vocabulary too!

 

I won’t even go into the people who eat “cold slaw.”  That’s just weird.  Then again, so is me talking about going into people; that’s the miscommunication hokey pokey.

 

When you’re in a marriage miscommunication is just plain frustrating.  MyEx and I were pretty good, until things got to the end.  But at that point, we could have walked around with subtitle LED banners dangling from our necks and we wouldn’t have understood a word spoken. Neither of us were looking anywhere but ourselves.

 

That’s generally how miscommunication happens.  People start hearing what they want and stop saying what they need.  I know I’m good at reading people, but that doesn’t matter.  If I’m stuck translating Morse code sighs and awkward silences I’m not going to know how to reply with anything other than shrugs.

 

“I wear a blue collar and answer to Smurfette, have you seen me?”

Uhm…

 

See? Why do we have to decode this stuff?  I mean life is too confusing anyway, why can’t we find a way to talk with each other?  It’s not like I’m being a language Nazi; I dole plenty slices of Rob-babble pineapples—some are tangy, sweet, others are just bitter, but I do try to keep it where most anybody gets a taste of what I’m talking about.

 

And yet I’m equally as guilty. Why?  It’s a matter of trust.  See, good conversation requires I trust that you’ll use what I say appropriately, or even listen at all.  So, is miscommunication just a matter of mistrust? I don’t know, and if I did, I might not tell you.

 

Lassie trusts you.  She’ll tell you that Timmy is in the bottom of a well.  What she won’t tell you is that she pushed him in for withholding biscuits.   She eliminated the middle boy until she discovered the biscuit basket wasn’t bottomless.  Then she needed somebody help—no, wait.  That wasn’t Lassie that was a girl I dated in college. Sorry.  Interpretive miscommunication.

 

So if I’m going to do it myself, I shouldn’t be surprised to see others do it too. 

 

“Looking for a dominatrix with a ball gag, who’s willing to tie me up and call me Toto.”

See, now there’s a guy who knows how to communicate.

 

 

 

Finding a Use For the Married

“…and I’m in the pit too?”

“Yup.”

“So I’m a freakin’ idiot, right?”

“Yup.”

 

That’s what friends do; real friends are not afraid to hit Rob with the moron spade. I appreciate it though.  It’s the stinging thwack of love.  When they lean over and dust me off, I get a noogie, a peck on the forehead, and a lump in the skull to remember them.

 

Ever since my divorce the some questions have plagued me.  One of those questions is,  “What good are married people?”

 

I don’ mean marriage itself.  I’m a firm believer in that, but as a single person, what good are married people to me? For instance, most married people frown on me kissing them. They also don’t want to do things cuz of the “other half.” What the hell? They don’t play fetch, they don’t catch balls, they don’t even play dead.  What can a married person do?

 

Well yeah, and let me tell ya, they rub that in all the time…

 

Anyway, I know what use single people serve for the married; that’s easy: they’re science experiments.  Married people invite the single to their homes, then poke and prod them like they’re the Pillsbury Dough Children until they drop their cookies. 

 

That’s why, when I visit married people, I usually just throw dead mice on the carpet.  It raises my “single mystique,” while making them think twice before asking questions they may not want answed.

 

“I use them for foreplay.”

 

Married people like to make projects of us too. They think we need to be fixed. I am not an Erector Set.  I promise you. After my divorce, I swear, if there was fixing to be done, MyEx did everything humanly possible get it done.  At this point, what’s still broken, is just gonna to stay that way.

 

So what good are married people to me?  I really wish they’d stay on their side of the pastor/altar line.

 

So you can understand my reluctance in emailing one yesterday.  Still, I was having a problem and there was nowhere else to turn.  My mind was a cul de sac of thoroughfare traffic. I needed somebody with a cursory knowledge of Rob mind neuro-patterns, but not a vested interest in where things led.

 

I mean there are people in my life who care, but some of them have bids in other Rob brain projects and there’s a conflict of interest.  Always count on somebody clearing up an interest conflict by steering things their way.  Married friends are conditioned:  They never have things their way.

 

That’s what I needed.  Besides, she was safe too. I mean what would happen if my friend told me something I didn’t want to hear?  I’d lick her husband’s forehead?  Not highly likely, he wears a coonskin cap and I generally don’t like raccoon fur between my teeth, at least outside of lent.

 

So I emailed her my crisis.

“Sounds like you have two problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“One’s yours, one’s somebody else’s; they have nothing to do with each other, but you’re trying to own them both.”

“Look, if I wanted riddles I’d have called my niece.  At least hers are funny.”

“And yet you emailed me…”

 

Great, even through the email I can see her stroking her beard with pride.  Married people think they have it all together.  Still, I play along.  An hour later, and a laptop full of fluid banter, the tight-knotted neurotransmitters start to unravel.  We continue, and because there is nothing to lose or gain for either of us, we found the answer I needed:

 

I’m a freakin’ idiot. 

 

It’s not so bad really; I just wish I didn’t need a married person to point it out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Smelling the Pixie Dust

Ok fine.  Some of you have been pestering me more than a five year old in the candy aisle, one arm wrapped around the giant M&M, the other hand buried into my forearm flesh. I wasn’t ready to give up the goodies before, but now I will.

 

Yes, you can have the M&Ms: it’s time to talk about Grunge Pixie.

 

There isn’t much to say really.  That’s the candy coating on why I hadn’t mentioned it before. I also wanted to let the package settle a bit before I opened it. This way I could leave out the emotional nuts, and let you know what was really there.

 

I guess you could say the package is half empty.

 

First the Rob peanut:  I had a great time.  GP is a great host, and my week with her was probably one of my best since the divorce.

 

Then the Grunge Plain:  I’m not what she’s looking for.  It’s ok; we’re still friendly. I’m not sure if it was my tangerine Speedo snow angels in her apartment complex courtyard, or just the lemon tart burst of realizing I wasn’t to her taste.  The why doesn’t matter. Not everybody loves chocolate covered Robs.

 

I’m not going to lie though: it was a little tough to get over.  And when Cosmo ran away on New Year it felt like I’d been rejected twice. Yeah, it’s like grabbing the Jalapeño jelly belly and expecting spearmint:  you discover that not only are your taste buds shot, you find that you’re apparently color blind as well, cuz no. They don’t look alike at all.

 

Still, in a weird way doubling my un-pleasure helped.  I wasn’t allowed to focus on one issue.  When one problem seemed pungently overwhelming, I could move to the other. Sure, it’s not the Altoid of joy, but it is the Lifesaver I had available.

 

Don’t get me wrong.  Grunge Pixie is a great woman.  I recommend you say hi if you’re ever in the area.  She makes awesome lasagna, and is eye catching in a black skirt; definitely the highlight of my Seattle tour.

 

It’s just that now now I’m getting back to being alone Rob.  No, that’s not nearly as pathetic as it sounds. It’s just a different flavor:  it’s marked on the box. It says “new and improved.” There’s a starburst around it; it must be true. I know that somebody out there will like what they see, and try a box of Robs again.

 

Since my last effort failed, I’m thinking of trying something new, maybe adding a little peanut butter to Rob’s chocolate. A news article last year gave me an idea.  It was about a dating service getting couples together through sweat samples.   That’s right you send them the sweat from your brow, and they’ll match you with somebody who thinks you’re the cats nip.

 

It’s an intriguing thought. My only problem is that I’m kinda poor.  I need to improvise.  What I’m thinking is that I can do this on my own, and eliminate the stinky middleman.  

 

Here’s the plan: I’m back on my workout schedule again. So far so good. Between the Cosmo, Grunge Pixie, and the weight machine, I’m down 10 pounds from New Years.

 

Now, if work out for a week without deodorant. Then the following Friday I can go out for coffee and troll for women with my sweaty shirt.  Any woman left standing is fair game, and if she’s sway woozy from the heat, well then she’s ample prey. It’s like hunting chunky kids at the Cinnabon.  I can’t miss, and it’s the perfect way to find who likes the flavor of Rob.

 

Now here’s where I switch things up, and add the cherry swirl.  I read another article yesterday.  It says that women can tell my intents by the smell of my sweat.  That’s right.  If I watch porn during my workout my sweat says, “I want sex.” I watch Dr. Phil, it says, “I’m sad and pathetic.”  So now I’m wondering, how do I make my smell say, “hey, I want a real relationship?” I asked several women about this, but unfortunately they had bitter tastes in their mouths, “Turn the heat up till you sweat, and then sit on the couch and watch TV. That smells like marriage to me.”

 

Although it may be a start, I’m not sure it’s what I want my scent to say.  I want Rob-aroma to say, “Hey, I’m a good guy.”  I thought about trying different activities and then sneaking up on women in the mall with a waft-pad to see what they said, but somehow the “sneaking” thing didn’t smell  “good guy” to me and I do believe in truth in advertising. 

 

So I’m not sure how to handle it. For now, I’m just gonna put my box on the shelf and see if anybody notices. Somebody will enjoy Rob.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Religion Of Rob

I tried a new church this weekend.  Yeah, don’t everybody spring up from the “Amen!” board all at once.  It was by no means a halleluiah moment.  I mean I liked the church, it was fine, but I preferred my last one.

 

Why is that?  I mean this one’s just a little further away, but it’s still the same faith and the service is pretty similar.  The pastor seemed like a really nice guy, even for a Steelers fan.  I don’t think they can excommunicate you for that.  I hope not.  I like the Dolphins.

 

Yeah, I can hear the thunder roll already.

 

It did make me wonder though, about faith and religion.  Why do I prefer one church over another, when they’re essentially the same? I looked inside for an answer, and found nothing, just a hollow Easter bunny choco-molded mid shrug.  There was something else wrapped in it’s melty goodness though. Another concept to consider. I considered the religion of Rob.

 

Can I get an Amen?

 

Yeah the religion of Rob; I’ve got a small flock of stiff-necked followers.  It might be bigger if I could turn rivers to blood. I mean, I can, but that would require that I say some mean things to MyEx; the religion of Rob isn’t looking for a martyr—at least not a dead one.  It would be cool if I could get her to rain sulfur though.  I might have to work on that. 

 

Anyway the faith of Rob is small.  I’d love to say that it’s a grand movement, but it’s not, in fact I’m losing followers.  Yup, I see it every day.  It starts with the small stuff. 

 

One day I spoke to one congregant saying, “Lo!  Listen to this song.  Thou shalt like it.”

They replied with a deafening yawn.

 

Weeks later the same person scurried forth and knelt, “Lord Rob…”  Ok, look it’s my blog; they’ll address me however I write that they address me.  Anyway, “...I have brought you this gift of music.  You will like it.”

 

I listened.  It was the same song I’d recommended weeks earlier.

 

Sigh, ye of little faith…

 

I suggested to another parishioner that they try green eggs and ham.  They wrinkled their nose, and not in a cute bunny kind of way. A few days later, that person came back to me and said, “Sam I Am just fed me the tastiest treat!”

 

Yeah, I loose more people to that Sam I Am.  I just can’t compete with his rhyme, meter, or persistence.

 

You would like me on a bus, you would like me with my cousin Gus…

 

It’s not Sam’s fault.  He just offers a better show and he welcomes  “young readers” with his cat in the hat cadence. I don’t have two things, a dog or a pony for my show; it’s just me and I’m only a forest butt sneech with a jubilee of ideas dancing in my head.

 

We all have our followers: people who commune ideas.  And yeah, we have faiths of our own. Prophets guide us with their wisdom.  In marriage, we’re locked together by a mutual faith.

 

That’s why it hurts when someone loses faith in you.  Me, I’d like to believe that they’ve lost their way; that’s an easier sacrifice for my ego altar. Then again, maybe they never found it.  Maybe I was just a bright star in the sky to enlightenment.  It’s great being a star, but it’s only there to point the way to a true destination. There’s still a stable full of other characters before you get to the real nativity scene.

 

“Can I be a wise man?”

“No, you’re a sheep.”

“awww, dang, I always have to be a sheep.”

“That’s cuz you always follow.”

 

 Me, I’m not a sheep.  I’m a Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights. “I’m a bright and shining star…” just not nearly as endowed.  Yeah, you’re gonna have to be a really close follower if you’re following that part of me. 

 

Objects in mirror are larger than they appear.

“Oh thank God!”

 

Unfortunately, that’s not the part of me that’s the star.  I’m sorry, girls.  Love me for my mind.

 

And that may be why my congregation is so small. It’s ok.  I like it this way. The religion of Rob is a simple thing. It’s like a highway rest stop. It’s people who come, stretch their legs, and maybe commune, then take away all the paper towels and toilet mints they can.

 

I’m a safe harbor on a long journey. Few people stay, but those that do are no longer drawn by the lures of sirens.   I like that, because Rob is not a faith of adventurers. Those who are looking for Spido the Smite Lord are looking at the wrong spot.

 

Still, that doesn’t take away the hurt when they go.  I can’t be everything to everyone, but I can try to be something for a few.  Maybe I can offer them manna for the trip, and should they stop this way again, maybe they’ll remember me.

 

I think it’s the same way when changing churches.  Sometimes you leave for a need, sometimes you leave for a want, but if the place where you’ve been was good, it will always affect the place where you go, and may even lead you back.

 

So sayeth the Rob.

 

 

New Song

Hey All! I just heard this song and wanted to share. I'm not ready to replace the playlist on the side yet, so I thought I'd include the video here. It's a little slow, but really cool. Oh, and don't worry, This isn't a replacement for today's blog, only a bonus gift. That's right, think of me as your little Cracker Jack box of surprises. ;)

Shelter and Captivity

Remember being young and single?  Some of us remember the transition into not-so young and still single, but that’s a different blog.  This is the twenty-something hangin’ out with friends drinking screwdrivers, and looking as cool as possible blog.  This is about the image we cast when searching for perspective mates—or at least for a paragraph or so.

 

For me the sitting single was more about hanging out, than sniffing out.  I know my friends were after something else, but I just liked bullshitting about something I’d just read and singing with the music.

 

“…but if you only knew how easy it would be to show me how you feel…”

 

“Dude!  Don’t look at me when you sing that!” That’s my good friend Dave.  We haven’t spoken since his wife had their baby.  I think he thought I was a bad influence.

 

But that’s how it was, just a booth of us wasting time and chomping nachos.  By the end of the night the booth usually separated out to the single and the coupled.  You could here the singles whining, while the couples would offer helpful advice like, “That’s ok.  You’ll find love someday.”

 

Yeah, That’s usually where the party broke down.

 

Now, Friday nights are my escape nights.  They’re my chance to break out of the house.  Working at home blows.  I have one friend who says I use it as a crutch.  That’s why I hit her with the crutch.  Now that’s one less person who comes by during visitation hours.

 

Work at home has taught me sympathy for stay at home moms.  Still, I’d take the kids to talk to if I could.  Sure I can’t discuss the moral conflicts presented in “Hills Like White Elephants,” but I can bad mouth Mary for being a little slut and having a little lamb out of wooly-wedlock.

 

Instead, I depend on the kindness of emailing strangers:

 

“Dear Sir, I am a rich foreign diplomat in need of laundering my ill-gotten booty…”

 

That’s my Saturday through Thursday.  Come Friday, the vertical blinds look like prison bars and I feel a bit caged.  Hell, by Thursday, I’m willing to invite Jehovah’s witnesses in to see something new.

 

“Really, you have pamphlets?  Come on in!  Tell me everything!  You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

 

Fifteen minutes later they’re running for the door.  I think they’ve spread the word of Rob too, now, because nobody knocks anymore.  Even the girl scouts keep clear their cookies.

 

That’s why Friday nights I go out.  No more “liquor and whores” out, just “latte n’ me” out.  It’s Rob, sitting in a shop full of other aloof artist-types. It’s home.  We don’t talk like we did in our twenties; we just pretend to be better than everybody else while rubbing our chins. We also rub against the proles.

 

That’s the modus operandi of the coffee house writer; we’re the Ozymandius  of the literary world. Nobody recognizes us, but in our minds we look important.  And in thousands of years our blog-fill fodder will clutter landfills: a testament to our legacy. Our lone and level reams stretch far away…

 

The good thing about our anti-social social club is I don’t have to talk about relationships.  It’s not like the old days, listening to my coupled friends. Yeah, that bitter just doesn’t go the same with coffee.

 

On bad Fridays, the coffee shop is full.  That means I have to share a table with the rubbing rabble.  You can learn something from rubbing people, but usually you risk infection--besides, I’m not there to learn; I’m there to look important.

 

Last Friday was bad; if I wanted to sit, I needed to break scones with an elderly couple. 

 

“Can I sit here?” I point to a space at the table behind a lit-pile where Descartes contemplates the existence of the drop ceiling over his book-cover head. Next to him lies an open Betty Freidan complaining that the drop ceiling was glass, which Woody Allen sees as half empty but fully falling. Jong’s spine stretches over the ménage a trois opining that it should be mirrored; If Jung was in the stack , I was personally unconscious of the fact.

 

Yeah, that’s why I usually sit alone.

“I don’t know,” smiles the lady looking to her husband, “can you?”

Great, I’m sitting with humorists. What’s worse, the gleam in their eye scares me; they’re foreigners.  I drop into the chair.

 

As soon as my butt touches wood, wrist clamps spring from the chair, locking me in place.

 

“Hey!” I yell,  “What’s going on? Are you trying to kill me?” I’m staring at the laser pointer attached to the man’s keys.

 

“We don’t want you to die, Mr. Boyd,” he says, waving the pointer over my head, “we want you to talk.”

 

Frau Blucher begins the questioning, “So, what do you do?  Are you married, What’s your take on the disappearing honey bees?”

 

“uhm, blue?”  I wasn’t ready for this.  And sure, maybe I’m exaggerating when I say that they clamped me to the chair, but they did ask me lots of questions.  And the guy did have a laser pointer!  He could have put my eye out. 

 

See here’s the thing. I love talking, but on the spot with foreign intellectuals!  I’m just pseudo-smart.  I don’t really know anything! Socrates would have loved me! I’m a self-proclaimed fool.

 

This couple seems to love me too. They’ve changed my night out to an evening of captivity. I know if I want to see freedom, I’ll need to answer their questions. And where did the lady’s rubber gloves come from?

 

I answer everything to the best of my ability.  Its obvious they’re fishing. Before I can pull out my map of North American tide charts, the woman stops me.

 

“Married? Really?  How long were you married?”

I answer; the woman takes notes.  Now I’m being interrogated on everything from fidelity to cohabitation.  She’s fascinated that although I don’t believe in living together, MyEx and I did just that.

 

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“We have ways of making you talk...” She snaps her glove, and her husband fondles his pointer.

I close my eyes and pretend I didn’t see that. “I moved here for her.  We didn’t have a choice.”

“Ahhh….did it affect your marriage?  Answer truthfully…”

 

I tell her I don’t know.  I don’t.  It’s not like I can compare what would have happened if we didn’t live together.  For the record, I don’t think it did.  I think we’d have made the same mistakes even if we hadn’t.  Our flaws may have come from living in the same house, but they came long after we got married.

 

The couple sips their house coffee, and lets me know that they’ve been married for 28 years.  The woman admits that the man next to her is her second husband, and then they share their life stories. 

 

When I was in my twenties, I remember this process as being more fun, and, well, voluntary.  Still it is nice to talk to people outside my realm.  Maybe that’s why they want to talk to me.

 

That’s the hardest thing I’ve found about being alone.  There’s nobody there to ask questions and to share. I’m the type of person who grows by sharing.  Being alone stifles me.  Part of the joy of finding something cool is so that I can say, “hey look:  this is cool!”  and somebody can either agree or disagree.  I enjoy that.  That’s part of why I come for coffee.  I come for the off chance that somebody with try to stretch me, whether I want it or not.  This is as close as I can get to the late night friend conversations from my twenties.

 

When the conversation ends. The woman looks at me and says, “Don’t worry, you’ll find love someday.”

 

Yup, just like old times.