Well I’ll be buggered.
Actually, no I won’t. Not without some serious intoxication and a signed affidavit that it is an enjoyable experience.
But that’s not why I’m here. Today is post 252 in the series “How My Father Drives Me Crazy and Still Seems Right.”
I’ve been sitting with him and having a drink for the past 45 minutes. Somehow, inexorable, smoothly, we turn to the topic of children. Well, he does. I sit there and sip white wine.
He recounts the story of how the daughter of a younger colleague of his gave him an endearing name. How she played with his hair. The things she said. And how he spent that whole time thinking, “Wouldn’t it be great if she was my grandchild!”
He knows I’m queer but isn’t happy about it. And I can’t tell him I’m dating a woman who is taken and have gushy feelings for a guy who may not like me. I can’t tell him how depressing I find being in this relationship sometimes, how Lovely and I both depress each other on a weekly basis because of the sheer stupidity of this situation. I can’t tell him how unsatisfied I am with the way my life is going. I can’t justify to myself, not all the time, the reasons for being in this situation. I can’t tell him that I keep looking for Mister Right (yes, MISTER; now fuck off with your censure) but all I ever get is Mr./Ms. Right Now. And I really can’t tell him that I’ll take it – I’ll take the right now and still look for the forever because I can’t conceive of happiness as this princpled, stoic stand where you deprive yourself of everything except The One Thing you’ve been waiting for.
Every week, once a week, I think: today is the end of me and Lovely. This is where it ends, I can see that there aren’t any tracks ahead. And for a month and a half now, every week we’ve dug the tracks out from under the weeds and shrubbery and found a way forward. Every week, I find I love her more. But the relationship never gets even a little more flexible, never gains more future. It’s a dead end and we’re travelling blind.
You can’t imagine how much I want children. And a home to give them, and comfort in our daily lives and the boredom of knowing that I’ll come home to same sod every day, that it won’t be a lack of desire that keeps me faithful, but laziness, wariness of turmoil and uproar. You can’t imagine how much I want to just do stuff with one person, who says I’m beautiful but doesn’t look too closely, who doesn’t get upset when one of us forgets a birthday or anniversary, who assumes that things will keep going and only springs into action when it turns out that they might not. Someone with a lot of faith, some healthy cynicism and minimal fear.
I don’t have that. I have absolute delight right now, and no promises. I don’t have plans. I don’t have a future.