More musings on love, and my new records

A float trip for today had been planned by AD & me. But he had to go out of town on family business, and the other potential floaters decided to go blueberry picking instead. I think they’re nuts—it’s way to hot to be out in the sun picking blueberries. It’s the perfect day to be half-submerged in the cool, shaded water of the Bogue Chitto. I feel deprived, and I’m tempted to crash a hotel pool.

My actual day’s itinerary:

Nile Café, the new (yet another) middle eastern restaurant. My evaluation: shrug. I felt virtuous for having fish instead of lamb. But then I went to…

The big Rue, where I had a coffee milkshake. And I ran into G, a single, age-appropriate, reasonably attractive fellow deejay. Someone I know to be looking to date and who on paper looks like a good match for me, but I never do anything about it. Not enough spark would be the lazy way to explain why not, except I seem to have major, immediate chemistry mostly with psychopaths, the Insane Republican Med Student being Exhibit A.

For years now I’ve thought I was ready for a real relationship. I thought I wanted a real relationship. I told people I wanted a boyfriend, maybe even a husband. And I dated and dated and had various flings and misadventures, but in five years the longest relationship I had was with the IRMS. And when I broke up with him, I told him it was because I wanted a real boyfriend. I don’t even want to start explaining why he wasn’t “my boyfriend” after several months of dating and fucking exclusively—suffice it to say that he was a paranoid control freak, misogynist and (did I mention?) psychopath. The real reason I broke up with him is because I was afraid of him, didn’t like him and didn’t like spending time with him out of bed, and didn’t like myself for wanting to fuck him. But I didn’t tell him any of that stuff, because for the first time in my life I had no interest in clearing the air or coming to some kind of understanding at the end of a relationship—I just wanted to get the hell out before he made me as insane as he was.

But I persisted in wanting a “serious” relationship, or thinking I did. Until this spring, somewhere in the desultory whatever-that-was with the Lonely Limey or my Mrs. Robinson adventure with T the Underaged, the shell of that desire started to crack and crumble and I realized there was really nothing much inside it. I’m not cut out for the standard, make-a-commitment-and-share-living-space serious relationship, and I think I’ve always known it.

What I wanted was to be loved and cared for, or some reassurance that I was lovable and worthy of being cherished by a man. I still want those things, but the need doesn’t seem so critical anymore. If I have any readers at this point, they’re probably sick of reading about law school, but among all the reasons I’m going to law school are these: to stop selling myself short and to take full responsibility for taking care of myself. When I made that decision, I realized I don’t need a man—which seems obvious, since no man has made any substantial contributions to my well-being since I was divorced ten years ago.

I still like men and want them around, but dealing with them seems scary and sticky right now.

So, G at the Rue. He probably is relationship material, but I don’t want that kind of relationship. I think I really do want what Edmund White’s favorite woman wanted—romantic affairs followed by lifelong friendship. It’s probably not a coincidence that my better relationships have tended to work out that way, despite the fact that I have never let them evolve that way naturally and peacefully. But if there’s not enough chemistry to fuel the sexy affair part, then it’s better to jump directly to being friends.

Anyway, I had my milkshake at the Rue. Then I should have gone home but it was the hottest part of the day and I knew that the air-conditioning in my apartment would then be losing its daily battle with the late afternoon sun. So to kill some time I stopped in at…

The CD Warehouse. This is usually safe, because most of the time they don’t have much of anything worth buying. The most I’ve ever walked out of there with was three used CDs—before today.

Someone with good taste in music apparently had a financial crisis and had to get rid of a lot of stuff—I feel your pain, buddy, been there myself.

I bought 13 CDs, which wasn’t exactly in the budget, though they were a bargain. They’ll still be a bargain if the check goes through before payday and I have to pay an NSF fee. (Bad girl, Miss H! Boy will I be glad to see payday this month…) I could have bought another couple of dozen.

One of my new acquisitions is Emmylou Harris’ Quarter Moon in a Ten Cent Town, which came out in 1978. She had some hits off this record, but as I sit here and listen to it, I realize that I know every single song by heart—because my dad had this on 8-track. Pause-click.

It’s a great record. My dad used to have natural, unschooled good taste in music. What happened? The last time I had the misfortune to travel with my parents by car, he whistled along to a John Philip Sousa tape the whole way. If hell does exist, I imagine it will be something like that trip.

I’m reading Philip Roth’s The Plot Against America. It’s terrifying—the scenario seems way too plausible—it’s keeping me up at night.