Chrisonomicon

Tuesday, June 25, 2002

Pride weekend passed in a blur of sun, sweat, beer, and pounding music. Dianna flew in for the parties, I drove in for the boys (or at least one boy, in particular), and along with a whole bevy of friends decked out for a weekend of partying, we descended upon an unsuspecting crowd to show our pride in the only way we seem to know: socializing, drinking, and dancing.

Despite hangovers, a lack of sleep, and sunburns—I was fortunate enough to learn my lesson from last year's Pride festival, lathering on the sunscreen well in advance—a good time was had by all. It wasn't as crowded as last year's festival and, since I hadn't ventured into the city more than a few times over the past year, I was meeting a lot of new people, catching up with old friends, and being cruised like nobody's business.

While the cruising was fun, it started to get old really quickly when I was getting more attention from the crowd than from the one boy I wanted it. He's been honest with me. He doesn't want anything serious while he recollects himself from a recent, difficult breakup. And I want to give him space, to be completely understanding and supportive but every time he looks at me, those barbed hooks he's planted in my torso twist, rip the breath away from me, and I wonder how long I can be held at arm's length before I start to come apart.

He's leaving for a ten-day vacation and the extended absence is looking to be more of a godsend than not, as it leaves me time to recollect myself as well. I often ask myself what happened to the person I was, not even a few weeks ago, when I was enthusiastically anticipating single life again. Now I can barely get through an hour without thinking of him.

Things seem to have changed since the weekend's festivities. I feel so different from the person I was last month, who was a completely different person from just a month before that, and I feel as though assuredness and confidence are nothing more than fleeting moments that can be pinned down but for a second, writhing under my thumb, before slipping away into the wet maze of life.

I've unloaded these ideas on my friends, who've been nothing but gratuitously supportive of my neuroses. They've tried to help me build nets to harness this slick, evasive confidence. Can they even be caught or controlled? Or is it something that comes to you with a practiced calm, a submission to life, and an acceptance of things as they are and not as you want them to be? While the answer seems to follow the latter train of thought, I usually find the truth to lie somewhere in the middle and, as such, will continue to build those nets.

Who knows, maybe I'll catch something yet.