With A Little Help From My Friends

Life goes on. Last night we gathered to celebrate BE's 31st birthday. Yes, the 31's are upon us. It's some wild stuff. It's especially wild to know the same people for much of those years and see them as pimpled 15 year olds and remember first cigarettes and first kisses and seventh grade teachers and bad haircuts and still remember everyone's parents' home phone numbers yet know none of eachother's cellphone numbers. In fact Farf mentioned last night that he could bank on remembering ML's mom's number when he's 100 on his death bed.

We've known each other for a long time. What can I say. I am happy that nothing has changed. It's nice to always have a place to go where everyone knows your name and you are always welcome and everything's always the same and you can do no wrong and you are loved unconditionally just because you're you. I don't think after this many years there is anything any of us could do that would change that. We have tested and pushed and stretched and pulled and angered and hurt and annoyed and teased each other already. We have formed differing alliances at different times. We are are true selfish selves in front of each other, no questions asked, no complaints made. Our quirks are endearing instead of annoying and we always give each other the benefit of the doubt. I can't say enough how lucky we are. We actually have a family dynamic but it's different than the family you are born into; we chose each other.

Sometimes I think it's weird that none of us have moved on, that you could strip off the titles and weight gain/loss and better clothing and find us doing the same thing, having the same conversations, playing the same way as we did at 5, 10, 15, 20, 25 and 31. We often talk longingly about a commune where we'd all live together and have kids with each other and grow old together. ML, V and I had fun at Barcade last week making fusion last names out of our last names and how our diversity as a group would make for some good looking kids. This is our utopia. This is what we all dream about and aspire to and wish was possible. If we could all live together on Roosevelt Island in the same apartment we wouldn't want for anything or need the outside world at all. Is that not crazy? Aren't we supposed to want more? Aren't we supposed to want the conventional life the career the spouse the kids the home? Are we just jaded because we've all been burned by our attempts at that?? Is this renaissance just a phase? I know I never feel more comfortable and complete than I do on these nights that I always wish were a little bit longer; like a lifetime longer.

At one point a couple of months ago A and I were feeling like like we needed to explore the outside world and forage for some sustinence that we were using this comfort as a crutch and should get out more; you know, find something to keep us warm at night, something less safe, something less guaranteed. We quickly realized that at the end of the day a guarantee is what we want. So we went out and looked but at the end of the day remembered where home is. At the end of the day who wants to work so hard and risk so much when nine time out of ten all your efforts are for naught. Anyway as D says, the right guy is the one who won't let you get away. I've had my share of guys who wouldn't let me get away but they were needy possessive guys, not letting me get away to save them from their insecurities; that's not what D means.

In a conversation with 31 the other day when we were analyzing why we never hooked up in law school he said something about there never being an opportunity and I responded that of course there was. I realize now that he must respect me and wouldn't take advantage of a drunken night at the Reade Street Pub and Ale house as his opportunity. (Although he did do that shot off my back that he claims to have forgotten). Back then not trying to hook up with me when I was drunk meant disinterest to me. I didn't know from respect. That's something new I've added to my list at the sage old age of 30. Let me know you're actually interested in me. Put yourself out there, don't let me get away, don't wuss out and make your move when I'm drunk. Treat me like a woman. Although we're equal, we're different and there is a dance that we're supposed to engage in. You lead. I've always resisted it because I didn't understand the nuance of equal yet different. I thought that you thought you were buying me, not my dinner, so would refuse to let you pay so I could maintain some control. I interpreted a door being opened for me or you offering to hold my heavy bag as evidence that you thought didn't think we were equal, realize I was smart, and that you were playing a game with a goal in mind and I always wanted to be your equal partner, nothing less. Now I understand the dance. It means that you ask me out. You pay for dinner. If we go outside to smoke a cigarette and I don't bring my coat as I invariably won't, you give me yours. That's how you show me that you like me and respect me. Actions speak so much louder than words. So many women accept less. So many woman are skeptical of a guy who offers his coat because it's so rarely done these days. That only serves to discourage guys from being gentlemen as one of my co-workers says because when the reception is bad and not grateful when you offer the seat on the subway, offer the jacket, open the door, you are less likely to do it again. That leaves women and men in a weird place where miscommunication is a guarantee and if you have a safe place like I do, you are likely to take refuge in it.

So I went to BE'S 31st birthday without a plus one and then to a bar where I was able to dance as provocatively as I wanted to knowing I won't be taken advantage of or perceived any differently than I have always been. In fact ML had me up against the wall with my leg around his neck at one point. I couldn't do that with anyone else. Who wouldn't rather know she can pick up anyone's jacket and wear it outside or steal a cigarette or cuddle up to someone in a vestibule because it's cold out or hold hands with two hot guys at once, Bak's coffee with some cream green-eyed good looks and ML's tall, dark and handsome charm made me the luckiest girl crossing that street, all with the knowledge that it's all good. It's all gravy.

Though it may be all good, the 31's are upon us and we haven't changed since we were 5, 15, 25 and 31. What does that say about us? We'd be lucky to all end up in our commune. But it would be nice to try on convention for size too.