With a larger population than twelve state capital cities, The University of Texas boasts an enrollment of precisely one-and-half craploads of people. And they are everywhere. Once you add these students to those not attending the school (but also not doing anything else), a thriving sub-genre of Austinites, I can’t drive around this town without getting the feeling that everyone is having a better time than I am. And as this group is constantly replenished with new blood, as I age, they are frozen in time like a vampire, Dorian Gray, or Bob Costas.
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Recently, I saw a 17 year-old holding a press conference to announce he was going to play football at The University of South Carolina. Now, I have actually been to South Carolina. I saw a turkey the size of a Volkswagen there. I believe it was the only living thing not smoking. Regardless, I started thinking about how this kid on T.V. was literally half my age. This means I have a t-shirt which says “Betty Ford Clinic” in my possession that, except for the ability to overcome the block of an interior lineman, is old enough to hold its own nationally televised press conference. Of course, it is just a t-shirt, so I guess it would probably have to go to Arizona St.But, I thought back to my trip to South Carolina. I was in my early twenties and went there because I was sure I was madly in love with a girl I had met twice. It would be the first of a litany of out-of-state, recently divorced, or otherwise impossible infatuations in my life. Unfortunately, she only liked me for my mind and I had far more tangible ways of expressing my interest in her. These were ways that required precautionary stretching and Gatorade to replenish eagerly worked off electrolytes. She would later visit me in Austin, but this would only serve to lengthen my delusions. It was like treating dementia with copious amounts of hallucinogens- just a waste of good drugs… or in this case, Bare Naked Ladies concert tickets.
Mind you, I’m not ashamed of having liked her. She was brilliant, funny, and could order great take-out. It was just the fact that I only care to invest myself in lost causes. I find that I’m still prone to these types from time to time but, thankfully, not as much as I used to be. Sure, the star-crossed romanticism always appealed to me on some level. However, that was the most innocent aspect; the most easily tenable. I mainly flock to women too unobtainable because there’s a built in, no-fault, rejection. “Well, she was great but will be moving back to Guam soon, and with my American education, I can’t readily locate that on a map.” Happily, the fear of being rejected by someone you are deeply drawn to isn’t the only problem the “out-of-towner” alleviates. You also don’t have to worry about any type of commitment either.
Historically, my feelings regarding commitment could be summed up by the fact that I have three brands of mustard in my refrigerator. Another example is when my boss once visited my office and asked for a stapler. I had to confess to him that I had no idea where the stapler was. You see, I preferred paperclips because I didn't like the commitment of staples. He stared at me blankly. “Merino, you got problems,” he said while his wife laughed out loud. Minutes after he found a stapler, he sheepishly asked me for a staple remover. Apparently, he had joined the wrong set of files and needed the saber-toothed instrument that violently rips the staples out of your now tattered papers. “One divorce, coming up,” I snorted as I handed it to him.
This kind of attitude is fine, even advisable in your early twenties. I feel that it’s a time best spent on you and who you are going to be. However, once you get into your thirties and still have this bearing, you realize you’re just spinning your wheels and wasting time. Or worse, you're hiding from a fear of failure. This can easily happen when your same talent for observation that allows you to mercilessly eviscerate the lady with 32 items in the express line, turns on you when no one else is around. It is such a sharp and unforgiving instrument, it amazes me when others are oblivious to their own shortcomings.
I was once complimented at work when my manager said, “Paul’s strength is that he knows what he’s doing wrong. He’s great at self-assessment.” I wanted to jump up in the meeting and say, “That’s nothing, Boss! I snore, I drink too much, and have a completely irrational fear of drowning as well!” These things are all true, by the way. Come to think of it, they all reared their ugly heads simultaneously in Las Vegas one early morning. After twelve straight hours at a blackjack table, I realized I had set the land speed record for rum. Feeling particularly rotten, I ran a bath in my equally rotten hotel room.
You see, my college roommate and I decided to spend our precious few dollars on booze and gambling rather than luxuries like cable television and working door locks. There was also a suspicious dark stain on the floor one could easily imagine a chalk outline around. As I slipped into the bath, I yelled out to Neil, “If you can’t hear me snoring, it means I’m drowning.” Then, I passed out to the deafening silence of a close friend debating whether to let me die or fish my drunken, naked body from the tub. Luckily for both of us, he didn’t have to make that Sophie’s choice. So, I guess it’s good to be able to recognize your faults but, maybe, not dwell on them so Goddamn much.
I was once asked the awkward question by a well-meaning idiot, “Don’t you love yourself?” Uncharacteristically, I replied honestly and said, “It’s more of a physical relationship… You know? We’re just having a good time.” And, ultimately, there lies the problem. I wonder if you get the kinds of relationships you deserve. Now, a few more miles have rolled on my odometer and I realize that I’m not old, but I am too old to still be pulling the kinds of crap I did in my twenties. But it’s a slow process, and it’s not like touching a hot stove. These lessons have to be periodically relearned.
Recently, under the guise of kind curiosity, I asked a mutual friend about a married woman the way a New Yorker thumbs through the obituaries looking for apartments. I was charmed by the thought of another brief dalliance with a recent divorcee and scolded myself. It’s not that I find anything wrong with it, per se. I guess I’m just curious about something that means a little more and is actually a little more demanding. Of course, this would mean having to find someone I wouldn’t mind taking a long road trip with. Not that I go on them often, but it always seems to be my measure of someone’s worth. If you could stand to be trapped with this person in a confined space, between Fort Stockton and El Paso, and you don’t find yourself calculating your odds of survival if you leapt from the vehicle, you might have someone worth keeping.
Driving near campus yesterday, I found myself stopped at a light in front of a bar with a full patio of students and half-emptied pitchers of beer. It was a beautiful March day in the low 70’s. Knowing much of the country was still under a blanket of snow, I rolled down my windows to appreciate the mild temperatures- like a child finishing his plate because people were starving in China. With yet another birthday bearing down on me, I turned down the blaring classic rock that was already old when I was their age. I saw them laughing, and horsing around, and obviously not using terms like “horsing around.” But, it actually made me happy this time. I still have this and probably will for quite sometime- maybe, for the rest of my life. However, it doesn’t mean that I can’t move onto other things too. And as I see those countless students floating through life from disc golf course to happy hour, I paused and truly realized that I’ve been just as much stuck in time as they are.
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