My favorite pair of shoes ever was this bright red strappy pair of camper sandals that lasted me 3 summers of near-daily wear. I bought them while on vacation in a seaside european town back when the dollar to the euro exchange rate was not as ugly. I am back at this seaside town this weekend, and stumbled upon the shop where I bought the sandals. There, I found my sandals reincarnated into a hideous version of their former selves. The straps were now thinner and the chunky rubber sole had grown a heel, making the whole thing look simultaneously awkward and slutty. It sounds like I’m trying to make a comparison between me now and then, but it doesn’t quite fit.
The trip three years ago followed breakup number 2 with the boyf. I can’t remember if that break up was over my solipsistic driving style or my telling him the cautionary tale of what happened to Jon the Pervert that made him run for the hills. In any case, going on a trip to a place that he was fond of made for a good pretext for getting back in touch, and so we got back together immediately after my return only to break up another 3 months later. Getting back in touch this time around would have probably led to the same conclusion, so it’s for the best that he ignored the e-mail I sent last week in a moment of weakness.
What drove me back into his arms three years ago was actually my feeling lonely and distraught over a breakup that had occurred eight months prior and would take me another two years to get over. The pathetic thing is that I just didn’t want to be alone.
His name was Chris. Chris was an artist. Chris viewed (still does, I suppose) every moment of his life through the wide-open eyes of a child for whom the world is new and fascinating and inspiring and full of wonder. When you’re telling a story, Chris listens to your every word and makes you feel like the center of the universe. Sometimes in the evenings I would read and Chris would draw me. Or he’d draw whatever random thing came into his head: his grandfather hunting whales, a chicken eating an omelette, most often his smelly dog. Chris is responsible for my love of Oerbier (over which he broke my heart), for my obsession with the New Yorker (I got my own subscription as a first step in admitting that the relationship was through), for my crush on Terri Gross, for my collection of nerdy books on molecular gastronomy that he continued to give me as presents long after we broke up, and for my love of esoterica (like documentaries about typeface). This was my first relationship, post college, so in a way, Chris is responsible for who I am as an adult.
Unfortunately Chris was also a co-worker and Chris did not wake up happy. The combination of those two – plus an ex girlfriend with multiple sclerosis who bestowed upon Chris the honor of dealing with her end-of-life issues – spelled doom for the relationship. She didn’t die in the end – turned out she and her team of doctors mistook an anxiety disorder for ms. These things happen, I suppose.
Doing this loop-back made me think about him, and maybe miss him – or more precisely made me miss myself and that time in my life. I once again was 26 and heart-broken, on vacation by myself, still waiting for the rest of my life to start.
Damn. Better hurry back to the bubble and quit this time traveling business.
Rant & Ramble at INSEAD 