Jay Elias | You can take it with you

"I have wasted Time, and now doth
Time waste me"
- Richard II

2002-08-22- 11:44 p.m.

You Ain't A Baby No More, Baby

About half an hour ago, Rachel called. She went to happy hour after work today with some of her ex-coworkers, and was hoping I’d either want to come down to her place or would invite her up to mine. I demurred, with explanations of work that I was doing here at home. It wasn’t quite right to explain to her the truth: I want to avoid seeing her tonight.
She’s a touch drunk at least. She made it to happy hour right after work and was leaving at about ten, and she hasn’t eaten dinner yet, which makes it about four hours of drinking on an empty stomach. It’s left her less guarded than she usually is. She couldn’t quite cover up the hurt in her voice that I didn’t want to see her. I felt a little bad about that; I didn’t mean to hurt her through my desire to be alone tonight. But it is a little gratifying as well. It feels nice to be able to put someone off. It’s enfranchising, in a way. I have the power to disappoint, to let down, to wound and maim on the field of someone else’s feelings. I have a notion however that this feeling isn’t a good or worthy one, though. I get the sense that there is something depraved about using one’s ability to make another person feel bad as a means of self-therapy.
I’m still relishing it though. It gives me a glimpse of the person I could be if I had the heart to do what was best for me and damn the approbation of others. I’m noticing that the adult me isn’t nearly as self-contained as I was in adolescence; this me is more cautious and testing and self-sacrificing. I catch myself sometimes desperate not to offend, petrified that my actions and speech will disturb others and the fragile balance of my life. I’ve grown into a man who won’t rock the boat, trying to preserve as much as I can the sameness of my life. Which is a bit of a problem, I suppose, because I’m not walking around singing the praises of my life to the hilltops.
Tomorrow I’m having lunch with Twee, seeing her for the first time since she and Wee broke up about a month ago. When we talked on the phone earlier to set our plans, she asked about how things were going with Rachel, and I tried to explain to her all I’ve been trying to explain to myself in here, and then I told her that I wanted my happiness to be self-actualized and independent of others. Which seems obvious on its face, but is a lot harder to put my own mind around. All my life, perhaps all of anyone’s life, I’ve been seeking the approval of others. I battled for the love of my parents, I struggled for the approval of teachers, I clawed and scratched for a niche of friends to take care of me and go out with me on Friday nights. And now it is little different: I vie for the attention of employers and seek the recommendation of bosses by day and try to cement the affections of lovers by night. And in the end, this is where the bulk of my identity comes from. I’m Mr. and Mrs. Elias’ son, I’m an alumnus of this college, I go out on Friday to Milady’s Bar with these friends, I work for so-and-so during the week and I’m Rachel’s boyfriend. We spend whole evenings telling these five facts to people at cocktail parties where we call it “small talk”, but of course it isn’t small at all; it is the story of my whole life reduced to a single sentence and it covers all the major points. Rachel told me in the car on the way back that this is the difference between Americans and Europeans, that we tend to define ourselves almost entirely by what it is we do and hardly at all by who we are. I don’t know about Europeans, but I think she’s not far off about the red, white and blues.
I love Fight Club. I’ve read the book and seen the movie more times than I can count, and I think I get it. But that in itself is a double-edged sword. Because it makes me realize of course that I am my job, I am my apartment, I am how much I have in the bank. I am my fucking khakis. And I’m not quite sure how to get out of that. Tyler Durden’s plan is to eliminate everything, not just the possessions but all the ambition and id until you come down to just the primordial essence of yourself. I don’t think that will work for me. What I think I need is a way to go beyond this while becoming more instead of less. I need to figure out a way of making growing up be about something more than just getting bigger.
I’m furious with my own melancholia. I’m twenty-five years old. I’m in good health. I’ve got a girlfriend who likes me very much, a girl so pretty that it still takes my breath away that she’s with me. I’ve got good friends, who love me and care for me, and best of all, whom I chose because I knew they were people of quality. I’ve got my own apartment in Manhattan. I’ve got a mind that can still think and think well when pressed. I’ve had amazing experiences. I’ve survived all my mistakes so far. Why do I get so little satisfaction out of all that?

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If you want to make me
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Older

Doesn't Take Much and That's Messed Up - 2004-03-15
Like Water Under Bridges - 2003-09-08
Jesus On The Dashboard - 2003-08-13
An Administrative Announcement - 2003-08-11
Don't Worry, It's Coming - 2003-08-02

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