It seems people that know me on a personal level tend to not recognize the weirdness that goes along in my life. As they themselves don’t see it as weird because in their heads it comes to the category: It’s not odd, it’s just William. And to a degree I’ll have to agree; there are things I’ve done no matter how weird I thought they were, I did just for the experience . These experiences usually pan out to be nothing, and seemingly not as weird as first thought; the trouble is since I never truly put much thought into my decisions to do “weird” things I tend to forget them all together afterword. The people that witnessed the acts, or did the activity with me always seem to remember them and in such strength they can recall lines of dialog I said as we engaged in our, whatever else word there is for such a situation, activity or etc.
But for the last few weeks I’ve been on the phone with my old friend Irene about going to go visit her toward the end of summer. Since, 1) out of all of us I’m the only one that has yet to go. 2) in the six years I’ve worked at my current job only once have I ever taken a vacation 3) to finally see Irene. 4) see the fuckin’ east coast for the first time. I’m not a well-traveled man, in fact I’ve seen pretty much 0% of the world I live in, hell I tend to miss things in the town I’ve lived in for the past 20 years. (Jesus, 20 years, somehow that’s sickening to me.) So I really want to go.
During one of our conversations which usually range in the area of “random” we actually hit on the fact that I plan to visit, and I asked if I should pack a blanket. She snorted with a bit of amusement mixed with annoyance, “I have blankets, dork.”
At about this time, she brings up a little fact that I (somehow along the blurry, and moronic path that has led me to where I am today) forgot. Some years ago I was living in a fairly decent sized house with, oddly enough, pretty much the same people I’m currently living with, give or take a two people. But in the house from long ago I lived in a smaller room, and even smaller bed which I was sharing with Irene. Taking into consideration that I work nights and when I got home at 5am I usually wake her up so she could get ready for work. But there were plenty of nights that we shared that squeaky twin sized bed. But take this more into consideration, about this time we had already stopped dating some 2 years prior and she was engaged to my friend. I’ll reassure you now: that nothing ever happened. Emotionally speaking sleeping next to her is much in the same way people feel when sleeping with a pet; comforting and ease putting, but no sexual tension.
At that point in our relationship I had a hard time seeing her as anything but a close friend. Usually I don’t like to account for others on their thoughts on the shit that I do, but I will say this, she felt the same. It was so apparent that we were safe with each other, her fiancé/my friend thanked me for sharing my room with her as he was out doing Navy stuff. Only once did he ever express any concern, and it was when he was dead drunk during our New Year’s Eve party, to which I assured him with a friendly, “Dude, shut the fuck up” with a pat on the back, and bright smile. He dropped the subject forever. But for those eight months that she and I shared our lives in that room, we just went about our days.
But as I was saying; she says, “I have blankets, dork. You don’t have to bring any. All the beds have blankets. You can always sleep with me anyway.”
“Well, I don’t know. I was just making sure. I didn’t want to be stuck on your couch with nothing,” I said. And it was at that point, I remembered our life in that tiny room and bed. Remembered isn’t the right word, I’m always aware that we shared a bed both romantically and not, but at times I tend to forget the length in which we had. And near every time it still strikes me in an odd way. It’s not weird to any of us, and I’m glad for the experience but it seems I forget the tenderness I had for another person. And that’s what is weird to me. I had no reason to share anymore with her. We had broken up and even though we stayed friends, I could have easily just said, “No.” But I didn’t. And for that I’m grateful to myself. But I can’t help but wonder why I did. Was I lonely? Did I really want/need someone else there? Did I think it was going to be fun? Did I do it just to say I did, so I had a weird story to tell? Or was I just being nice?
Part of me believes that I did it because I thought it was weird.