Do you know what I miss?
I really miss the freedom to dream. I miss the richness of being young and driving off without deciding on a direction. All I needed was a tank of gas and “goodbye!”
I admit that I miss the wild times and the nights that ran until sunrise.
I miss the times when I was alive and living my life, out loud, and in the scenes of New York City.
I miss the afterhours moments when the sun came up after my time in the crowds. I remember my thoughts as I drove home.
Rather than get home and in bed, I continued to drive south on the Meadowbrook to the Loop Parkway. I made my way, as fast as I could, so that I could see the rest of the sunrise from the beach at Point Lookout.
I remember standing on the sands in my “night before” outfit. My hair was long and accepting the wind as it blew.
I remember . . .
I remember standing in my black shoes, black blazer, and a black button-down shirt with the collar spread open. I wore a thin silver necklace around my neck.
I had two hooped earrings in my left ear. I had a Camel cigarette clenched in my teeth.
I can remember the smell from the bar on my clothing and the lies I told to impress some girl who I never knew or met before. Safer to say, I never saw her again.
So why did I even bother?
Just to play a role?
Maybe I was too young to see that this was a joke.
Or maybe I was too blind to see that I was the punchline.
I remember the “on and off” bouts between ex-girlfriends and the need I had or the want and desire I had to sincerely “be” with someone instead of believing I was no one.
Hindsight is a bitch.
I know what I “should ” have done.
I know where I “should have” invested my time.
I remember the letdowns and disappointments. In the same breath, I somehow believed that time was always on my side.
Tomorrow is always going to be there.
Time is always on our side when you are young.
I remember this.
I miss the ability to recover and recuperate. I would stay out all night and still make it to work the next day.
I might not have worked well or been functional. But hey, I showed up.
Sometimes, showing up is more than half the battle.
Sometimes, showing up is all you can do.
And sometimes, you have to cut out or play hooky.
You have to “let your free flag fly!”
I miss this.
I miss taking long drives to nowhere, just to find a place to eat at some little diner where they serve a good bowl of soup and a nice piece of peach cobbler.
No one else is around.
No one else to impress.
I remember a morning in the Hamptons after a nigh that went too wild.
I remember there was a girl sleeping in the back seat of my car.
I didn’t know her name and I doubt she knew mine.
Such is life when you’re in your 20’s.
I remember parking with her, by the beach.
I sat on the hood of my car and watched the sun come up.
I looked at the waves coming in.
The girl smelled either from the drinks known as Alabama Slammers or Kamikazes.
One of the two.
Or maybe both.
Who knows?
This was a long time ago.
I dropped her off at the house where she was staying. I gave her my number, and she gave me hers.
I intentionally gave her the wrong number, by the way.
But guess what . . .
She gave me the wrong number too.
I thought about the irony and laughed
(at first).
Then my insecurity snuck in to tell me, “maybe she thought you were just as awful.”
Or annoying. . .
There was a girl that came home with me one night.
I thought that night might turn sexual, except nothing sexual happened.
Nothing at all, at last nothing orgasmic.
We sat on the deck in the backyard of my childhood home. Only, I wasn’t a child anymore. Life was changing and so was I.
I was rounding the corner and entering the 20th year of my life.
We talked until the sun came up. We talked like two perfect strangers who seemed to know alot about each other.
The sun came up and we hugged.
We did a quick kiss, and thanked each other for a wonderful time.
Then, she got in her car and left.
No names or phone numbers were exchanged. But that was fine.
She left without any judgment.
We were both tired of the scene and the bullshit events and people who ran around in the same circles.
I heard she died though.
At least, I think that was the story.
I believe it was a car accident, if I’m not mistaken.
I never knew her name.
She was known as “that girl” from “that place.”
And so it goes.
I remember the night two girls came home with me.
I tried to get them out of the house before Mom woke up.
But no.
Mom caught me walking them down the stairs and to the front door.
Mom was cool about this.
She laughed.
The Old Man would have had plenty to say if he was still around.
He’d have been pissed.
My Old Man was less liberal and forgiving about these things.
I don’t miss the aimless or randomness of faceless and unmemorable people.
Not at all.
I wish I had gone left instead of right a few times. And, of course, there are other times when I should have gone right instead of left.
But then I wouldn’t be me.
Or would I?
I know I wish I paid more attention to the warning signs.
But hindsight is a bitch.
Of course, everyone says this after the fact.
I still think and I still feel and while my version of passion is highly different from what it was, my choice of intimacy is not what it used to be either.
Still, there is a core to who I am and there is a core to what I want.
The truth is I have always wanted to be in love. I would have been fine to have that “one” special person.
I just never had the balls to make my move.
(You know?)
I never trusted the fact that someone could love me as deeply, wildly, or as passionately.
I was always afraid to find out that the relationship was either a lie or a joke, and yes, I was afraid the joke was on me.
I have always wanted to be with someone who had their own special language with me.
We could share our own special brand of silliness together.
Who cared if anyone else understood?
Who cared if anyone approved?
Who cared about how we are or the public displays of affection?
Who cared about who laughed or who snickered or looked at us with disgust?
I am not for everyone.
I am not consequential or circumstantial.
An acquired taste, maybe.
I am not fit for all crowds nor am I suitable for all audiences.
But I don’t need an audience.
I don’t need to be cool or included or invited.
I just need a good, long drive, and some good music, and my very best and most special person in the passenger seat.
We could drive off in my car, just before the sun comes up and maybe find a place to watch the sunrise together.
Or we can enjoy a winter’s night when the snow falls with candles lit around the apartment and an encounter on the couch that will last my heart another lifetime.
I miss a lot.
But not everything.
I don’t miss the wrong turns.
But who knows?
Maybe it’s true . . .
The best is yet to come.
The Written Addiction 