On The Precipice of Coming Full Circle

"So if the r-value is greater than the r-critical, it's statistically significant...ok. It's 7:00 now, I could go through these and then if I get in by 7:30...God, I can't be ready by then. God, I don't want to be ready. I don't care. I do not fucking care. I'm not re-taking the exam. I don't care what I get for my lecture grade, I don't fucking care. I DON'T FUCKING CARE."

I close the browser windows and stalk out of Andrews Hall. I look across the courtyard at Burnett. My inner monologue kicks in again. This time it's the superego talking.

"You should at least try. How's that going to look on a grad school ap?"

Id butts in.

"Fuck grad school! I don't want to go to grad school. I don't care about this shit, I don't. I don't want to do this and I don't care. If I have to retake the class, so be it. Third time is the fucking charm. I hate this and I want it to be done."

Ego is silent. Just looks at superego as if to say, "He may be right this time."

It's 7:00 PM and it's dark as midnight outside on a cold December night. This is the last week of my undergraduate career and I am sputtering pathetically across the finish line. There is no warrior spirit, no heart of a champion, no "I can do this" attitude. As I pass in between the Temple Building and the Lied Center for Performing Arts, it begins to sleet. This is too fitting. There is anger, there is exhaustion, and there is a growing sense that this is not what I want for myself. Now as I pass between these two buildings that symbolize everything I once thought I would be, there is sleet.

*********************

December, 2003

I'm sitting in the bathroom of an old, drafty house. I am staring at disbelief at a letter in my hand. There, on University of Nebraska letterhead, is my notice that effective immediately, I need to pick a new major. Nay, I need to pick a new direction in life. The acting faculty have put their heads together and come to the conclusion that I am such a bad actor that I'm not even teachable. This stands in stark contrast to the prevailing opinions of my classmates that I'm one of the more talented in our class and I have nothing to worry about as we await the results of "sophomore cuts." For me, it's more of a 4th year cut, since I've previously enjoyed a pre-med debacle of a freshman year followed by two more years of academic agnosticism. I don't know what to do with this fucking letter. I am looking around for anything innaccurate about the details of my surroundings, hoping that if something is weird enough I can write this off as a dream and I can still have all my life goals intact when I wake up. Everything looks the same. I do know what to do with this letter. I'd like to wipe my ass with it, but then I don't want to risk a papercut that would add injury to insult. What the hell am I going to do?

I gather my thoughts for a little bit and call Anna. We've been back together for a few days and if anything can make me feel better right now, it's her. She sounds incredibly distant. Come to think of it, I haven't seen her in a few days. She doesn't seem to feel sorry for me, and she really doesn't want to talk. Oh Christ, she's going to break up with me again. Wow, when it rains, it really fucking pours. Ok, I'm ready to freak out now. I hang up with Anna and call my sister. I can't hold back tears as I tell her the news. Terror washes over me. What the hell am I going to do with my life? For a little while I at least felt like I knew what I wanted to do. In the little airplane of my mind everything is blinking and flashing and an inappropriately calm female voice says "Stall, stall, stall..." The ground is coming up fast.

I lose my shit. I hit rock bottom, as they say. I have no career path and just as I suspected, I've been dumped again. I am a walking case study in major depression with the one exception that I'm totally unwilling to even consider killing myself. In the next three weeks, I rarely move from the futon. My schedule consists of waking up way too early after going to bed way too late and then moving out to the couch in the hopes that the change of venue will allow me a couple more hours of sleep. When it doesn't I watch Sportscenter even though I've already seen it, then eventually switch to Family Guy DVDs. Sometimes friends stop by to spend some time with me. By "friends" I mean "girls", and by "spend some time" I mean "cradle my head in their lap and tell me things will get better."

I end up declaring a new major in psychology, largely because those were the only open classes by the time I was cut and I needed to register for something. I end up doing really well. I get a good GPA for the first time in years. I make Dean's List. Maybe I can do this shit.

*********************
December, 2005

Maybe not.

I'm sulking my way across campus, back to my car. I've quit. I've given up. I'm the guy in the race who falls down and just sits there. I'm thinking back over the last semester. I have pretty much hated my classes. Mind you, they haven't been great classes, but there have only been two of them and I've hated them. I haven't done my homework and I haven't done particularly well on the exams. I'm burned out on going to school and I don't have my head in the right place, or so I think. Now I'm starting to wonder if I have my heart in the right place.

I haven't given up performing entirely. There's still improv, and there's still my a cappella group. Well, scratch the latter now that I'm graduating, but the point is this: The only times I've felt really alive lately have been when I've been able to step on stage and look out at the faces of all the people in the crowd. The only thing I've really looked forward to is when I've gotten up the day of a show and felt that energy swirling all around my body because of the sheer knowledge that I get to go out that night and entertain people. There's a sensation that washes over me, a transition from nervousness to excitement that comes when the house lights go down and adrenaline shoots into my bloodstream. Some people see an audience and freak out. I see an audience and relax. This is home. This is my comfort zone. This is where I can feel my eyes light up and something inside me just starts firing on all cylinders.

I can't watch Saturday Night Live or standup comedy any more without thinking about how badly I want that to be me. I see a Fryer's Club Roast and I think about how someday I want to be in that chair, getting ripped on by comedians who weren't even born yet when I started working. I think back to the 6th grade, when I was voted "Most likely to be on Saturday Night Live." I wanted to be a veterinarian then. They must have known better. I want to be a psychologist now. I should have known better.

The fact of the matter is that I'm not sure I like where I'm going, and the longer I think about the idea of 5 years of grad school to get my PhD in a field I'm not sure I even feel that passionately about, the more it makes me cringe. I tell everyone I'm taking a couple years off to build my resume' for grad school aps because I'm not marketable right now. That's true, but what's also true is that I'm taking the time off because I need it. I don't want grad school. I don't know what the hell I want, but I'm getting an idea. Every time one of my theatre friends tells me I should just move out to Chicago, or just move out to LA and see what I could do, I listen a little more. Every time somebody tells me I should go to the national Undergraduate Professional Theatre Audition, I think, "Why the hell not?" I can sing and I'm not hideously ugly. Somebody would hire me for that alone. I think about being back onstage, acting in musicals. I think about doing standup. I think about doing 2 man improv shows in LA with the guy I succeeded as president of our troupe. I think about living out there with my friends. "Why the hell not?" What am I going to do here? Wait tables and maybe tackle psychos on the overnight shift at the pscyh ward if I'm lucky enough to get a job? There are restaurants everywhere. Every major city in America, from what they tell me. Crazy people in every major metropolitan area, too, if I'm not mistaken.

Id, Ego, Superego.

"Why the hell not?"

Frankly, I don't have a good answer for that. I have a few great ones for, "Why?", though.

My Journey Through The "Feminine Side"

“Are you going to be cuddly, or are you going to be a bed snob?”
“I’m gonna be a bed snob. Sorry, kiddo.”
“You would…”

It's six in the morning, and it's time to part ways with a pretty girl. We haven't slept (it's not what you think), and my half-drunk, half-serious attempt at finding something better than a pillow to hold while I sleep has been unsuccessful. Before I can pretend to be indignant enough to lay on a fake guilt trip, I'm reminded of a line from Boondock Saints: "Cuddle? What a fag..."

Man, am I really doing this? Far cry from the days when I used to get angry at my then-girlfriend for curling up right behind me and pinning me between her and the edge of the bed when there was plenty of vacant queen-size bed she could be sleeping on. Now I'm giving my roommate shit because she won't spoon with me. Who does that?

We say goodnight, and I assume my usual sleeping post on the living room couch. Before I drift away/pass out, I think back over the night's events.

7:30 PM - I go to a play in which a cast full of males acts out the story of a modern-day, gay Jesus figure. There is a lot of man kissing involved, but there is also an incredibly powerful message. It's a hell of a show. I cry. I give it a standing ovation.

9:30 PM - I come home and drink with my roommates and our mutual friend. We dance around like idiots. They consult my opinion on their choice of outfits. I change into a tight shirt, name brand jeans held up by an even bigger-name brand belt and suede shoes.

11:30 PM - We all pile in the car and sing along to an old No Doubt album. We buy alcohol and go to the cast party, where my roommates and I proceed to get shitty and test our respective abilities to turn each other on in a platonic sort of way...if that makes any sense. There is some light ear-biting and neck-kissing involved. Nothing comes of any of it but a few goosebumps. Theatre people...

4:00 AM - I'm sitting on the couch in the living room of the party house, basking in that phase of a party where most of the people have gone home and the ones who remain at the party are either sleepy, sentimental, or horny. I fit the former two descriptions, as do most of the people in the room. Usually I fit the latter, but tonight, getting laid falls much further down my list of priorities. Maybe it's that fighting back tears while seeing Gay Jesus crucified onstage doesn't put me "in the mood", or maybe I'm just tired. In either case, my attention is focused on the single task of lulling my roommate, who now has her head resting in my lap, to sleep. I used to be good at this...I could probably remember if I tried. Ah yes, one hand runs fingers through the hair, the other gently brushes along the arm...works every time. Within a couple minutes she's sound asleep while I trace my fingertips along the highlights of her hair and criticize my friends on the opposite couch for the awkward-looking cuddling session they're attempting. I warn one of them, our roommate-to-be, that if she can't improve her spooning skills she's not allowed to live with me. She claims to be a "selfish sleeper". I vow to break her of that.

Most any guy would find the idea of having one gorgeous girl asleep in his lap while he tells another about how they're going to sleep together positively fraught with sexual tension. Not me. Not tonight. I find it calming, and when I say that we'll "sleep together" I mean that we'll "be asleep" together. My roommate stirs. She looks up and me and smiles.

"I'm so happy right now."
"Yeah, me too."
"I'm so glad we're roommates."
"So am I."

I smile back and resume stroking her hair. She sighs and drifts off to sleep again. A friend looks at me, at her, and back at me as if to say, "You two?" I smile and shake my head. I've had a close friendship or two that metamorphosed into passion and romance, but this isn't one of them.

"She couldn't handle me," I joke. She stirs again and looks up at me.
"What?"
"Nothing, baby, go back to sleep." She nestles her head between the pillow and my stomach. She's beautiful when she sleeps.
"I love you."
"I love you too, baby." A new arrival to the room gives me another quizzical look. I smile and shake my head again, and close my eyes.

Half an hour later, and it's my turn to be asleep in her lap. I am vaguely aware of the murmur of conversation from somewhere outside the couch, but mostly just of the gradual rise and fall of her stomach under my throw pillow and the faint smell of Lucky You perfume. I feel safe here. I haven't really felt completely resigned and protected like this since...I can't even remember when. No image to maintain, no calculated decisions, no tension or "what if it doesn't work out" scenarios, just warm and quiet.

"I love you."
"I love you, too. You're the best fake boyfriend ever."
"Hah, I was just gonna say that, that you're the best fake girlfriend ever." We refer to ourselves as a fake couple. Might as well, people always assume it when we're out together anyhow. She runs her fingernails through my hair...I'm powerless against it...I fall asleep.

Another 30 minutes and our third roommate has had her fill of dancing or talking or whatever she was doing and wakes us up to take her home. I rise and give her a hug. She fits just under my chin and sort of buries herself into my chest when I hug her. I love that. I go into the bedroom to get my coat, and there lies our soon-to-be roommate, passed out on the bed. I wake her to ask if she wants to come home with us and sleep in her soon-to-be room or stay passed out there and take her chances on what happens when the guy whose room she's in eventually finds her in his bed. She elects to stay there. I can tell she is aware of only the lure of sleep right now, but she'll be fine. She's coherent enough to know what's going on, and given that I'm not intimidated by much and I fear seeing her get really pissed off...yeah, she'll be fine. I give her a parting kiss on the forehead, grab my coat, forget my backpack and our leftover alcohol, and drive the crew to McDonald's.

6:00 AM - I'm back at home, on the couch, alone. I'm thinking back over my night and over the last 7 months since I moved in here. I dare say they've been 7 of the best months of my life. They have been months of quasi-forced exploration into what people like to call my "feminine side." Being quite literally surrounded by girls at all times will do that to you. There are two under our roof and 4 next door. I'd be lying if I said it isn't a welcome contrast to the constant competition for "alpha male" status in which I lived for the previous five years of my live. There's no question who the man of the house is when there's only one man in the house. That whole battle for dominance can get tedious in a hurry. My current residence also offers a nice contrast to the relative squalor in which I previously lived, too. Compared to a frat house, this is Utopia. Our place is not decorated with empty liquor bottles, does not contain any sort of oversized cardboard and/or inflatable beer boxes, has no furniture that was found or stolen, does not smell like a combination of sweat, beer, fart and mold, and is generally clean, pleasant, and well-decorated. I don't have to win a wrestling match or out drink anyone to gain status. There are better meals prepared here than frozen pizza or Ramen. It's a different sort of life, to be sure, and it affects me in different ways, but I wouldn't trade it.

Sometimes I show up with places with long hair stuck to my shirt. Sometimes I show up smelling like perfume because I hugged a roommate too soon after she sprayed it on. People love to insinuate that it's because I "got some" right before I showed up, but I smile, shake my head and tell them, "I live with girls." The same conversation invariably follows:

"Really? How many girls do you live with?"
"Two. Soon to be three."
"Oh man. Does it drive you nuts?"
"Nah, I love my girls."

Sometimes I go see a play about gay guys, cry, dance around the house, dress all metro, sing some No Doubt and go to a party where I platonically cuddle with and profess my love for a girl scant minutes after kissing my gay friend on the cheek. Effeminate? You bet. It doesn't scare me. It doesn't stop me from waking up the next day, shoveling the driveway in my ripped jeans, worn out boots and extra large gloves and then coming inside to watch football all afternoon. I still feel confident in my ability to have sex exclusively with females and enjoy it.

As I lie on the couch and my thoughts slip further and further away, I ponder just how much, over the course of the last 7 months, I've roughened up the girls' metaphorical edges and how much they've frilled and pressed mine. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I may cook, clean, do laundry and (unwillingly) watch Sex and the City with them, but it doesn't mean I can't still fix the furnace, haul up the trash cans, reach all the tall stuff and lift all the heavy stuff, and watch ultimate fighting with a beer in my hand, too. In the long run, it can only benefit me to have been exposed to the girlier side of life on a constant basis.

6:10 AM - Just before I fall asleep, an overwhelming happiness washes over me.

"Does it drive you nuts?"

I smile, shake my head, and drift away...

"Nah, I love my girls."