Dan in Real Life

Dear parents of teenagers:

               You brave souls. Thank you so much for getting your child this far. You've been there when they were sick, when they were fragile and small and weak, and you've never given up. You were there for their successes and failures; the events that will forever shape their adult lives. And the end is in sight. Soon, they will leave you and go have adult lives of their own. But not yet. Please. Please don’t give up. We still need parenting. We still need someone to tell about our days, someone to help us with our homework, someone to care about our happiness. We need someone to gossip with, to talk about our crushes to, and act stupid around, who can never hate us no matter how horrible we are. We aren't children anymore, but we’re definitely not adults. We make awful, horrible, debilitating decisions. Yes, we should learn from our own mistakes, and the advice you’re giving will, of course, be ignored, but don’t stop giving it. We still need a little guidance. Yes, take a step back, let us make a few mistakes, but please don’t abandon us. Don’t leave us alone in this world. 

My Perfect Day

I wake up, alone, without “help” from an alarm clock. Through the thick blankets covering my window a few ribbons of sunlight peek through. It’s probably around nine thirty, but I don’t glance at a clock. My dog is curled up next to me, her nose a tiny cold spot on my arm. There’s nothing I need to do today. There are no obligations vying for my time. My pillow is satin and my blankets are warm, and I just stay there for a little while. When I finally get out of bed, there is coffee already waiting for me, steaming and perfect. My hair looks amazing, and I spend a few minutes doing my makeup. Then, I go out for brunch at the Aviary with my Angel. She loves me just the same as she used to while Iron and Wine plays half-heard over the cafe speakers. We go to a concert or an art show, and she sings along with Whitney Houston in the car. After I go home, I drive my motorcycle to the park. It's a lazy fall day, the kind where you can't decide whether to feel the thin sun on your shoulders, or be cozy and demure in a sweater with sleeves pulled past your fingers. I read Witch of Blackbird Pond, spread across my favorite blanket. The arms of a perfect tree are hugging the sky right above me. It's the kind of tree that turns every color, from young and bright yellow-green leaves on the bottom boughs to the wizened dusky orange ones that crown the top. Those orange ones have seen the sun every day, been worn down by its relentless beat. They are the most damaged leaves, but also the most beautiful. I've just reached the part of the book where I know that everyone's going to be okay, and that everyone will end up where they are meant to be, when I drift off into a lazy sleep, lulled by the gentle murmurs of the spectacularly dying leaves. 

Is illicit love appealing to us?

Illicit love is always appealing. We fall in love with the situation, with the tragic hopelessness of the love, much more than the person. Often, when we finally get a chance with that person, the one out of our league, the one in a relationship, the one much too old or young for us, the attraction tends to fade. We don't want to love them: we want to be in love with them. This type of love is selfish. We care nothing for the way they feel, only how we are affected. Perhaps something meaningful can come from this initial attraction, but being in love with the idea of a person does not a healthy relationship make. Just ask Gatsby. 

Do you think there is only one soulmate for everyone or lots of options out there?

I believe that the belief that there is only one person for every individual, like matching socks, is incredibly destructive. Who matches socks anyways? Let the socks decide. Maybe the little fuzzy blue sock wants to be with the red and grey sock, even though they're completely different lengths. There is no universal sock-matcher, no hand of fate pushing two socks together, folding them neatly into one little ball, and tucking them away in a drawer, happily-ever-after. Sometimes socks just want to be alone. Maybe the sock is on an adventure, off searching for something more than a stupid sock to complete its existence. Some socks have holes, or pills, or are covered in dog hair: where does a sock like that go? Maybe the sock just wants some time to figure out what it wants to do, okay? Leave the poor sock alone.