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.
