On nights such as this, I am prone to wonder about what might happen were I to die in my sleep. Morbid, de jure, oui, but in effect, the precaution serves as a reminder to say “I love you” to the one I love, should she happen to be lying beside me, before turning inward for the night. In the absence of a paramour, an absence in which I find myself tonight—no pair of concave bends at the knee for me to fill with the flex of my own femurs and calves—I am forced to confront the honest truth that two taquitos and a glass of Pinot Grigio/Chardonnay blend is far from a lackluster adiu to this world. A worthwhile farewell does not stand upon a single motivation, but many. I may not be the luckiest, but I am among the lucky.
Perhaps at the end of chasing is the reality of what has already come true.
There comes a time in one’s life when one is just as happy to drink at home alone as with friends in a bar. And at that moment, one might wonder of these tendencies are a sign of alcoholism, or of growing up. One thing is for sure, though, if you are wondering this, you are white.
First of all, let me apologize for not wanting to be your friend. It is selfish of me and unkind. I understand that you have struggled in your own way, and that you will continue to struggle, too. I know that you have called your parents crying, lost. That you have wished for people to like you who do not. And yet, when your name comes up in conversation it consonants slide sideways off my tongue. I apologize for for the childishness of it all. Some things just aren’t fair. Not that you would know.
Secondly, congratulations on all of the wonderful things that have recently come your way. You are important now, and though I know that your victory does not come at the expense of mine, I cannot help but hold a grudge. I know in my heart that success is not a finite thing, and yet, I am afraid of being left hungry at the buffet.
Years from now, when all of this has waned, perhaps it will be your time to feel unsure, and I will laugh at having cursed my own beginning, which, as far as places to struggle go, seems fairly apropos. Maybe things will never be hard for you, and I will be vindicated in knowing that I was right all along. How could you possibly have earned this when I am still so deeply in debt?
A hermit in Massachusetts once wrote, “success is counted sweetest by those who ne’er succeed,” but even she found her way to a book deal in the end. More than counting, I suspect that we, the rare succeedors, cling to the succor of aplomb like an anorexic does a crumb, finding comfort in its scarcity and in the pain of wanting more.
Anyway, I wish you well, but only to your face. As far as I am concerned, your feet have always been too big for your body, and it is a shame that someone so lovely as you should be destined to walk through the halls of success with floppy feet.