Monday, May 19, 2003

I apologize for the serious nature of this posting. I want you to know, in advance, that this entry could be a "bummer."

As you may know, I have recently suffered the loss of my father. I'd like to think this tragedy hasn't completely dampened my spirits, which still remain hopeful and optimistic. I still believe in things. Things like hope, optimism, and poodles. I also believe in good things. Good things will still happen. Even if the world, as I knew it, collapsed like a dish shelf with too much weight on it.

But the hardest aspect of dealing with a loss is sometimes suppressing the shock and wonderment. Sometimes people say the wrong thing. Sometimes they lack any semblance of tact.

Before I continue, I need to be clear: I appreciate your condolences. i appreciate your "care" and "concern." I want you to check up on me. I do. Even now. Perhaps replenish my fridge with alcoholic beverages. Because, you know, sometimes a beer makes everything ok.

But I'm a bit weirded out when you tell me, "hey, Arye, I'm sorry to hear about your dad" while we're in a bar and Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough" plays on the loud speakers. While people jovially throw their bodies around with reckless abandon. No, not now, I'm thinking. And don't ask me, "how are you holding up" while I have a decent buzz and I'm trying to laugh. Because I'm not sure how to answer that. There I am feeling guilty as it is for being in a social surrounding. There I am trying for a little while to see life as you see it; carefree, happy, perhaps blurry. Please don't take me from that.
Don't pour a bucket of ice cold water over my head.
I wouldn't do that to you.

Perhaps I am being harsh. Perhaps I am being too critical. They do have good intentions, you'll say. And I agree with that. No one ever took their good intentions away. They still have them. In their wallet. In their pocket. Or on the kitchen counter. Wherever they keep those intentions.

I guess what i'm saying is that I'm trying to go on. As most mourners do. And I think it seems pretty obvious that at that specific moment, at that exact second when we hear Martin Gore singing over frenetic synthesizers, that maybe that isn't the time to see how I'm holding up. Because I just may cry into your Cosmopolitan.
And no one likes a salty Cosmo.


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