gozzterLeave a Comment on Am I who I think I am?

Am I who I think I am?

Many years ago (it seems) I was in a relationship in which I was urged to change my personality. I could well have retorted that it might have worked better if she would also change, but at the time, youth and pride were in full bloom and it seemed difficult, if undesirable, to change what characteristics I had been allotted. So Linda and I parted intact.

Subsequent rationalizations affirmed our decision, but I began to wonder about the feasibility, let alone the wisdom of attempting to put asunder a personality which, presumably, had been either genetically or experientially ordained. I was not objecting for religious or spiritual reasons, though; more for the anchor which my persona had served. I was me, dammit.

Still, years later and despite unregarded Age in corners thrown, I do recognize that under a variety of circumstances, I can hide under sundry masks which still maintain a core of me. I don’t think I have compromised anything by acting as different characters in different plays, although in truth I doubt that I have cast myself in sufficiently disparate roles that the centre would not hold; the ceremony of innocence may have suffered, as William Butler Yeats once opined, but mine at least, did not drown.

I am too old now to commit to the same kind of relationships that attended my younger self, but there are lesser allegiances -lighter ones- that, because of time constraints must needs stand in for the part. Love may not require an extended banquet, but it surely does require time to mature -time which for some of us, though assumed, may never be granted.

I do not mean this as an excuse for slapdash behaviour, or the lack of an intention of commitment, but, to reverse a quote from Samuel Johnson, merely as a triumph of Experience over Hope; age does that to a person, I suspect.

But so does memory. Janice, a friend I’d started to see a few months ago, seemed to use the same words of complaint I’d heard from Linda; perhaps, though, they were in response to lessons I’d never learned those many years ago.

“You act just like a bachelor, G,” she said stamping her foot impatiently under the table. We were in a restaurant at the time, so I felt the vibration uncomfortably close to my foot, rather than heard it. “It’s no wonder you’ve been single so long…”

That hurt as much as the hidden kick, but I maintained the smile on my face. “I’m just saying I don’t really want to go to a dance…” Judging by the look on her face, I thought I should soften my objection with an explanation. “I’ve never liked dancing, Janice…”

She screwed up her face for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to confront me on the issue. She managed to cross her arms at great risk to the plate on the table in front of her, and forced a smile onto her lips. “When did you last give it a try, G…? When you were a teenager?” She managed to add that before I could answer.

I had to think about it; it had been a while since I had even entertained the idea of dancing. A shrug seemed like the least combative answer.

Her face softened somewhat. “Look, I know we’re just friends…” she hesitated for a moment, to find the right words. “But…”

Clearly she was as out of practice with explanations as me. I didn’t know how to respond either, so we both stared at our plates and began fiddling with the remnants of food that were left. It was difficult to prolong the effort for long, however.

“Okay, it was silly of me to ask…” She aimed her fork at a  group of errant peas and that had wandered to the edge of her plate and avoided my eyes.

I’d forgotten just how uncomfortable a confrontation -even an innocent, minor one like this one was. Usually the old guys I meet for coffee at the Food Court avoid situations that call for decisions about things they figure might bother one of us. Most of them are still married, so I suppose they get a lot of practice honing their responses at home. Only one other than me -Harold- is divorced and both of us are treated as anomalies. Actually, the group knows enough not to prod, not to get him started. I, however, pride myself on an amicable retrenchment, as Jamie usually describes my reaction to things.

“You learned something from your divorce, didn’t you, G?” he said one time to me, glancing apprehensively at Harold who was sitting at the far end of the table, too busy nibbling on a sugar and raisin coated doughnut at the time to pay attention to our conversation. “You always seem to be so patient and conciliatory with us…” I have to admit he did twinkle his eyes when he said that, but I assumed he was serious, so I simply shrugged as if I were embarrassed.

“Old guys are easier to placate, don’t you think, Jamie?” I decided I had to reply in kind.

He smiled, although I’m not really sure he meant it. But it got me thinking about whether I actually had learned something from the divorce; whether the intervening years had really changed anything. I was still stubborn, and despite my years, still opinionated. I think those of us who had held positions of influence in the past, have difficulty relinquishing their authority -at least that was how I rationalized my own… I mean, a personality doesn’t change just because its usefulness is wearing thin, does it?

“My wife and I used to argue all the time,” Jamie said, as he picked at his bagel. “Then, after a while, we realized that it wasn’t worth the effort; soon, in fact, we wondered why we’d even disagreed about something which eventually didn’t seem so bad…”

Seeing half of a chocolate doughnut languishing on my plate, he broke off a big piece of his bagel and offered it to me. “You gotta share things, eh? Etta and I eventually learned that…” He stared at me for a moment, like the teacher he had been, then relaxed his eyes with a  smile. “It’s what makes the world work, don’t you think?”

I remember chuckling as I handed him the doughnut. And I remembered it weeks later as I played with my empty wine glass at the restaurant with Janice. She looked so, well, embarrassed; as if she’d strayed too far with me. We were just friends, after all; there were rules, borders that required invitations to cross. For both of us…

“Why don’t we compromise and just go for a walk instead?” she said, feeling she needed to make amends, and finally searching my face with her eyes.

I smiled at that -at least she was trying. But I felt bad about it. A compromise meant that I, too, needed to bend a little. I took token sip at my empty wine glass wondering what I should do. She reached for what we had assumed was an empty bottle and poured the last few drops left into my glass.

That little gesture triggered something inside of me. “Uhmm… could you maybe show me…”

Before I could finish my thought she laughed. “Show you how to dance…?” She reached for my hand as she saw me blush, and a delighted smile suddenly appeared on her face. “Actually, you know, I think I’d really rather go for a walk instead, G. We can think about dancing another time.” And she squeezed my hand.

I think I’m going to enjoy being with her…

, , , ,

Leave a comment

search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close