Love is in the air ... until it’s not
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- April 20, 2024
- 937
Turning to me for relationship advice is like asking a blender to mow the lawn. In theory it could work out, but it’s not very likely.
Thus it was that I did my best slip-sliding-away two-step dance, trying to think of anything that would remove that heavy burden.
I might, as Mom always said, have broad shoulders, but I know there are some things in this life I’ll never be able to do.
But when asked a direct question, I’m usually equipped with a quip.
“You’re kidding, right? All I know about love is how to lose it.”
My friend wasn’t having any of my facile wit, that self-effacing, aw-shucks humility, the kind of dry humor that’s served me so well for so long. No, he wanted answers, and he wanted one now.
So I pivoted.
“Just tell me a little bit more about what you’d like to have happen,” I said. “Where would you like this relationship to go?”
Asking open-ended questions like that is the mother’s milk of a therapist’s lucrative diet and not so dissimilar to the way a cop interrogates a suspect who has yet to secure legal representation.
What they’re both looking for is an admission of culpability, a kernel of erstwhile innocence that could bear fruit down the road.
I remember getting a phone call from a friend early on a Sunday afternoon just after I’d driven home after the 11 o’clock Mass.
“We have to go back,” he said. “I think I left my wallet there.”
“I cannot believe you’d be that careless,” I said, knowing he could.
Life is a series of choices. That’s why God granted us free will.
Was it a smart decision to break into an elementary school and shoot hoops in the gym on a snowy Saturday night hours earlier?
Clearly not and yet, despite our being well beyond the age of reason, that’s precisely what we did. The fact that I’d been getting away with similar shenanigans since I was a freshman in no way mitigated my behavior as a high school senior. The law of averages alone suggested one day — or one night — I’d get caught.
The policeman who drew the assignment of questioning me got right to the point, asking me to show him the sole of my sneaker.
So I flipped my orange Converse Chuck Taylor model his way.
“Yep, that matches up with a footprint we found outside the window,” leaning back in his metal chair with the smug satisfaction of a cat who’d just ripped the throat from a songbird.
Did I challenge him, ask to see the crime scene photos, delve a bit deeper into what had to be his less-than-scientific forensic methods?
Nope.
It reminded me of what had taken place a couple of months earlier in the high school hallway, filled with oblivious witnesses rushing this way and that, when my girlfriend told me it was all over.
We had been seeing each other since late summer, and this was almost Thanksgiving, which, in dating terms, was like a lifetime.
We had gone together to the Homecoming Dance just two days before and had had a good time, or so I thought, fool that I was.
“It’s nothing you did,” she said, taking my hand. “It’s just time.”
Did I challenge her decision, ask for evidence of bad behavior, delve a bit deeper into her heart-breaking, life-altering choice?
Nope.
I simply nodded my head and walked on down the hallway, aiming for English class, where we were studying Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness,” a novel about a journey that ends in abject disaster.
When you’re 18 years old, a few months shy of graduation and just this side of all the unknown adventures that college portends, you deal with disappointment the way a soldier after a firefight might.
First, you check for any obvious wounds. Any limbs missing? Is there blood gushing anywhere? Can you still get out of there?
Then you think, “This could have been a helluva lot worse.”
All of a sudden, sloppy joes and tater tots for lunch sound OK.
In fact, you can’t wait to sit down at the cafeteria table that you and your friends always occupy and tell them what just happened.
“Man, that’s too bad,” one might say, “but you’ll be better off without her,” to which another might add, “Yep, it’s her loss.”
All of those memories flashed through my mind when I was asked to give my tips on relationships, especially those in their nascence.
“Steer clear of gyms and dances,” I said. “You should be just fine.”
Not the best advice he’d ever gotten, but it wasn’t the worst, either.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to find him on Facebook, where others sometimes share much sharper insights.