124/365: 2005-2006

Saturday, 27 September 2008.

 

40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]

An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.

 

For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.

 

Year 38: 2005-2006

 

By the time January of 2006 rolled around, I'd been employed as a web content designer for several months at an industrial supply company in the suburbs of Chicago. It was a hellish hour-long commute for me, especially after I'd gotten used to working from home. Moreover, the job began at 7:30 in the morning, and in the previous few years, I'd gotten accustomed to going to bed at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning, and waking around noon. I did not adjust well. I was always tired, and I was off my game mentally. I felt as if my IQ had dropped by a third, simply because I was too sleepy to process. What I used to be able to do with ease, I now had to push through my brain with brute force, and I worked harder than I'd ever worked before. It never seemed to be enough.

 

In addition to having to overcome the sleep issue, I also had to make the transition from academia to the corporate world, and I was lost. I couldn't figure out what these guys wanted from me. In academia, the agenda is to look at an issue from all possible sides, so that you can better understand it. To be thorough in your understanding, you would be expected to lay out the acknowledged weaknesses of your own argument. The corporate people didn't want any part of that. They weren't after a thorough understanding of my ideas. My job was to sell the ideas, even if that just meant I was selling a VP on the idea that we ought to make a change to the web site's architecture. It was no use informing him of the downside to it. It would only confuse the VP and anger the middle-manager. My own personal style has always been to make decisions with all the facts, good and bad. I could not fathom why these people did not operate that way, but they didn't, and no matter how hard I worked, I got slammed for "not getting it." Eventually, I stopped trying to offer any creativity or insight of my own and just put my nose to the grindstone and churned out whatever I was asked for. I became a faceless cog, and the waters seemed to smooth out before me. I remembered, then, why I had never wanted a corporate job.

 

Toward the end of January I got a frantic phone call from my mother. My brother Marques had been attacked at a fraternity party at his alma mater, Eastern Michigan University. Some sketchy assholes had been making trouble, and he'd asked them to leave. They did, but then they waited for him outside, and when he came out, they hit him in the head with an iron horseshoe stake. He dropped to the ground, and they fled with my brother's friends giving chase. Marques was taken to a hospital in Ann Arbor, where surgeons would spend the next several hours picking pieces of skull out of his brain. They gave him a 50% chance of surviving the surgery. I got in my car and drove to Ann Arbor, hoping for the best. When I arrived, he was out of surgery, still alive, and with a titanium forehead. They had him lying with his head slightly propped, in a dark room for fear of overstimulating his nervous system. I wasn't entirely sure he'd even know who I was, but he recognized me right away and seemed glad to see me. I told him I loved him. He continued to recover, getting stronger each day. He was angry, and that seemed to motivate him. Defying all the best predictions of his doctors, he seemed not to have suffered any permanent brain damage, and we all felt blessed.

 

While Marques was in surgery, Kurt was recovering from a surgery of his own in Indiana. After years of mysterious recurring illness, he was finally diagnosed with chronic acute appendicitis, and had his appendix removed. Had he not been at home on morphine, he said, he would have come to wait with me at the hospital in Ann Arbor. As it was, I worried about both of them, and didn't get much sleep at the hospital.

 

I was crazy about Kurt. I had finally given up on the idea that our relationship didn't really mean anything... that it was just a couple of lonely friends who were keeping each other company. No, this was something real. As such, I had to be honest with C. about what had happened. It was a devastating conversation. Truly, it wasn't because I no longer loved C. that I had pursued my relationship with Kurt. On the contrary, I loved him as much as I ever did. But I could no longer bear living a life of emptiness while I waited for a reunion with C. that might never come. I was living a dead life, removed from my friends, and removed from any sense of hope or optimism. I was dying inside, and I could no longer do that to myself. On a rational level, C. understood, and didn't want me feeling dead inside anymore than I did, but on an emotional level, he was crushed. So was I. Hurting him was the last thing I ever wanted to do, but I had to do this to save myself. And my feelings for Kurt were such that I could not bear the idea that I might someday look back and regret not having given the relationship with him a chance.

 

Kurt, who had gotten a job with a conveyor controls company in Kentucky, spent a good deal of the spring in Chicago, working at a client site in the near west suburbs, just a few miles from my office. During the weeks he was in town, I would pack up a suitcase and move into his hotel room with him, returning every other day to feed and pet and play with the cats. It was heavenly.

 

In May, Kurt decided it was time for me to meet his parents. I was terrified. They were conservative Republicans and I was a staunch, politically-active Democrat. Surely they would hate me. What would we have to talk about? When I arrived at their house, I was nervous and a little bit timid, but they were gracious and kind, and gradually, I relaxed. The rest of the weekend, we sat out on the deck overlooking the pond, drinking martinis and smoking cigars. Kurt's father and I talked about the tourism and hunting industry in my hometown in Michigan, and I joked about the fact that Hunter Safety was a required class at my school (it's true!). Then we talked at length about food and cooking and baseball, and as we sat there smoking our cigars and chatting about the many interests we had in common, I realized that I felt very much at ease and at home.

 

I returned to Indiana several times over the summer and fall, each time to sit on a quiet porch, smoking a cigar and sharing a few good stories under the boughs of the tall trees.

 

Who am I?

 

I am not really a smoker.

 

I've bought two packs of cigarettes in my life, and never got even halfway through either of them. I went through a period where I would smoke one or two cigarettes during a heavy night of drinking and playing pool, but I never felt the craving for more.

 

I've always loved the smell of cigars, but never got into the habit of smoking them. Once I started dating Kurt, I began smoking them on occasion, simply because he and his father love them, and they're always around. I still only smoke once every few weeks or so, though. It's more of a special occasion for me than an everyday indulgence. And, as with most things, I prefer robust, complex flavors.

 

[ view previous | view next ]

Done