The 60:40 Ratio

I went to lunch with a coworker last week and when we were driving back, it came up in conversation that his daughter's friend is getting divorced after being married for only a year.  He squinted at the road and said, "it's so sad.  I just don't know how two people could let a marriage fail."  I laughed and told him I don't know how anyone could make a marriage work. and he looked so appalled that I thought he was going to drive off the road.  He turned to face me from the driver's seat and said, "Claire!  It's so very simple.  Relationships are not about equality.  They're about inequality."

A few months back, S and I were on our way to a comedy club when I got a message from a friend.  It was the most meaningful thing anyone had said to me in months, so I began to question what I was doing with my life.  The entire way there, I stared out the window and began a mental list of regrets and failures and reasons why I needed to quit; but like clockwork, he caught on, hugged and and said, "Let's go to Catalina Island!"  He was relentless that night and it forced me to laugh and realize that his was the level of love I wanted. 

Lunch with my coworker last week felt a little like a date.  We went out, asked each other questions, gave each other answers and listened attentively.  I was on a high that afternoon from the things he told me, and I realized how much I miss male friends.  He's my Dad's age and full of amazing stories; and old enough to have wisdom to impart on the young, but young enough to understand another's point of view.  He said, "Relationships, Claire, are 60:40."  I wanted to iterrupt, but I didn't.  He continued, "Someone will always be giving 60%, and until you are able to realize and accept it, things will never work.  But if you can swallow your pride, if you can give a little bit more, if you can take the blame and pick up the pieces and love unconditionally, then it will work; and it will be better than you could imagine."

I knew he was right, but 60 percent is so difficult.  Last night, S told me that my honesty makes him think he deserves better than me.  I've begun making such effort - 65% in fact, but the more I give, the less he does; and the harder I try, the more he accuses me of not being fun anymore.  I don't know where I was when he stopped loving me as much, but I'd like to go back to that place and regain my dignity. 

The Chicago Talk

I've been wondering lately what I was thinking when I decided to move to California. I believe a large part of me came here to retire. Sand. Sun. Activities. Beautiful people. I have all the makings of a good vacation, only vacations end at some point. To continue at a leisurely pace and leave everything worrisome behind leaves one feeling extraordinarily artificial -- and that's what this place is. Beyond the beautiful landscaping and countless things to do lies a world where rainy days and all things necessary for balance are bygone. Reality masked by forgetfulness.
The trouble with forgetting things occurs when those things long-forgotten resurface. There is no current strong enough to carry away a full quarter of a life.

A boy from Iowa once tried explaining to me why the most interesting people in California are from the midwest. He said we're all looking for that place where we can finally identify with something other than our small town upbringing; and once we arrive we find the only things worth value are the other ones like us. I didn't listen to him, certain my experience would be different. Unfortunately, he was correct.

I moved here anyway and developed alzheimers or something similar, dismissing who I was for a person slightly less. I moved into retirement, a nice home on the beach, in order to put to rest everything I had spent the previous years fighting to become. No more sadness, no more searching. "I am content," I decided.

I carried my amnesia proudly, considering myself well-adjusted until late one night in February when a maniacal disc jockey unleashed a decade of fury in my parking garage. He saw everything he hated about himself in me and wouldn't stop yelling because of it. I chased him out onto the street, confused and very drunk, and his last words were something about being much better off now that he's become desensitized to the things that matter in life. I spent the following weeks thinking he had a good point.
From time to time, I remind myself of that horrible moment.

I was standing in line at Albertson's last night when I got a message from one of the most interesting people I will ever know. It was an update on his life, his failures, his accomplishments, and at the end an addendum, "I still do not know who I am." Thank God.
Only the ones who can admit to not knowing - those continually searching - ever really amount to anything. Something about Los Angeles made me think it was okay stop wondering.
Five months ago, I encountered the most necessary relationship I have found here; and it's one of the few things I hope to take with me when I find the courage to dig myself out of this mess. Last night, we talked about it. We talked about not knowing who we are. We talked about wanting nothing more than to get away from this and reestablish priorities. We talked about Chicago.