Sometimes I forget that my new friends don’t know me very well.
That they weren’t around when I tried a bunch of different drugs in high school. That they didn’t watch me, through college, systematically attempt to destroy my life. That they don’t know how close I came to being an alcoholic. That they don’t realize I spent time in a mental hospital.
This isn’t always a bad thing, but it can, occasionally, cause me massive amounts of confusion.
We were sitting around, bullshitting, on Friday night. It was Rob’s birthday and sitting around shooting the shit is as good of a way as any to celebrate someone’s birthday. We had cake and teased JD a bit about his lack of beardness and played Fluxx.
During the various bits and pieces of conversation, it came up that Tramp – who, much as I like him, is a dreadful innocent in desperate need of “real life experience” – thinks that Kevin and I are “prudish.”
Needless to say, this was one of the stranger things I’ve ever been called in my life.
On the other hand, I can see where he might think that. Kevin and I are married, with offspring. We have a relatively nice apartment, a relatively comfortable existence (especially from the point of view of a still-living-with-roommates, college student), and we don’t “party” much anymore. We’re responsible, respectable, normal. Boring.
The phrase “been there, done that” comes to mind.
The first boy who ever wrote me poetry (that didn’t sound like bad New Kids on the Block lyrics) died of a drug overdose. I’ll bet he felt “spiritually awake.” Really. Another friend was arrested for selling cocaine to 5th graders. I’m sure prison is an enlightening experience for him. A third friend never spoke to me again after I told her mother about her drug problem. She went into rehab and as far as I know, she got better. I saved her life. At the cost of our friendship.
My freshman year of college, I came very close to being a drunkard. I would get a 750 of rum every week from an of-age friend. I drank a shot in the morning to kill my headache enough that I could go to class. I drank a shot before class, and another one after. I woke up too many mornings wondering where I was, what I’d done, who I was with.
My sexual exploits could be a manual for a porn movie. Except, you know, that I look nothing like a porn star, and neither did any of the guys (and girls) that I went to bed with. I could regale people with the tales of my adventures in the great world arena of intercourse, but frankly, why bother?
To be honest, while all these things may have made me “wild” and “reckless” and “fun”, I was never very happy. I spent a lot of time being miserable, upset, worried, and paranoid.
Perhaps I am “prudish” now. I don’t really think I am. But I’m certainly a lot different from what I was. And I think that’s a good thing. But from an outsider’s point of view… I guess I’m just dull.
You know. I think I’ll take it as a compliment.
(PS, for those who care, this would be why there was a late-night call to persons who had, unfortunately, gone to sleep. Kevin was so stunned by this revalation that he felt the need to share it with people who might think it as inappropriate as we did.)