Judgement In Love

A typewriter with a paper that has "My New Life, Chapter 1" typed on it.

Have you been in love? Have you had that flush and rush when you see the perpetrator of your condition?

Have you lost your breath? Have you sat looking at the phone–no willing the phone–to announce an encounter? Have you traded texts into the wee hours of the night to wake up with a groggy smile a few short hours later?

Have you cancelled plans, blown off friends, contorted your calendar to be with someone? Have you felt deliciously guilty, while feeling delicious, too?

Love is not the most rational of feelings. It may just be one of the least rational. Deciding that you want to be with just one person permanently precipitates a headlong jump off a cliff for some. For others it’s an agonizing decision, because, how can you know? What if you’re wrong? How do you figure out if this is the one? And even after soul searching and angst, when you decide “yes, this is the one,” you find that you hurled yourself off a cliff, just like the other guy. It just took you a little longer. That’s what love does.

Love requires you to give at least a little part of yourself away. You give some of you to someone else to hold for safekeeping. It makes you think the best of your partner, because you have committed to trusting. And in committing you become loyal.

Your commitment isn’t just to the loved one. It’s to the relationship you share. It’s to that part where you’re holding a bit of each other. The wedding ring isn’t my ring. It’s The Spouse’s ring. It’s a symbol of the love and loyalty promised to me, to our family and to the meta-us.

And hells no!, this is not rational. It’s risky. It’s dangerous. It’s crazy.

So the love thing has to be somewhat pliant, like a green twig. It has to be strong to support change and growth, but still able to bend without breaking.

Overtime, the twig grows into a trunk with branches. The tree has to bend in a storm. Some branches might get brittle and break. But by growing more branches, more chances, it may survive.

Unless it gets hollowed out. And you sometimes can’t see that coming. Or you see it weakening so you add more water and fertilizer until you realize that you are just piling manure higher and higher on a tree with sap that’s no longer flowing. It’s just dried out. And it’s sad. And you maybe did or maybe didn’t lie to yourself.

Anyway, don’t blame someone for loving. Don’t blame them for hoping. Don’t blame them for forgiving and giving–yet another chance. Nobody wants to see their beautiful beginnings turned into a shit pile.

There is flawed judgement in love, but let’s not be quick to judge those in love. Bottom line, be kind.

The One That Got Away

A pseudo-artsy pic of the train station. People will do that.

I just missed that train. Like just missed it. As I topped the escalator I looked up to see the sign that read BRD (somehow that’s an abbreviation for boarding). My thought bubble contained a curse word. I double jumped up the last steps to watch the doors closing and the train slipping away. Au revoir.

I always check the departure sign when I enter a station. This one read that the next train would board in nine minutes. Experience taught me that it might actually be pulling in as I was reading. The train people wish to avoid additional passenger ire. They figure you can’t make it to the platform on time. No reason to add to folks’ Metro Rage by making them hustle ineffectively.

I ran up the escalator because sometimes I can catch it. Not today, though.

Maybe I should have hustled faster? Or, maybe I should stop looking at the sign and just accept what happens.

Last August, my fellow American History nerd sent me a link to this show that was blowing up on Broadway.

I’m all like, “When do we go?” And he’s all like, “Name it. Let’s go.”

I went online to see that it was, indeed, a hot show. There were a few single seats available around Christmas. Nothing earlier. Looking out, there were plenty of tickets for January and February, even March. I looked at the seating chart. I double checked to see when the star wasn’t performing (Sunday’s off starting January). I put four tickets in my cart. Then I started to think.

When is The Spouse traveling in January? We could save money with a Thursday show, but that’s more time off of work. Will my New Yorkers be home to put us up? Do I check the days with my fellow nerd? Do just the two of us go and our partners be damned? The Big Guy should see this show. Are these good seats?

Too many questions. I’ll get back to it.

And I didn’t. And my diddling over minutia that may or may not impact something five months down the line meant that I didn’t pull the trigger and buy those tickets to Hamilton that were in my shopping cart. Yes. In. My. Cart. They were all but in my possession for retail price. Yeah. That. FML.

I was petrified–stuck in stone–by a lack of perfect information. Like there is ever absolute certainty. I had enough information to make a good decision, but I lost to stupid nits of irrationality. Talked out of what I wanted by some worry wart perched over my shoulder. I hate that worry wart.

Where was my inner risk taker balancing that ninny? The risk was actually minuscule, easy to manage. Instead these teensy annoying questions took on a parade-balloon demeanor, blocking out anything else behind it. And those tickets slipped out of my hands back to the virtual pile. Glided out of site like that train.

Another train came in eight minutes, but those tickets? Gone. Gone. Gone.

Next time, I’m not going to lose my shot.

I bought the presale tickets for The River tour. I’ll figure out who goes later. I have time. It’s not that hard.

Next trigger to pull is on that remodel. I’m feeling pretty spunky. I’m not willing to wait for it.