In the blink of an eye: Hi, luv ya, bye
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THE shifts in the seasons of a relationship can be as subtle as the season changes in Los Angeles -- Oscar season being one notable exception. Taking a page from the Byrds (who took a page from the Bible), there’s a time of love, and a time of hate. A time to build up. A time to break down. A time to gain. A time to lose. And a time for a pre-nup, or at the very least, a “relationship prospectus.” For when it comes to investing in mutual fun, as in mutual funds, “past performance is no guarantee of future performance.”
The collective fissures that can strain any relationship over time aren’t always easy to spot until the foundation is cracked and the building housing a solid friendship is condemned. But what happens when you unexpectedly encounter a reasonable facsimile of all the phases of a relationship in one night? Is there a lesson you can draw from this dramatically shortened love lifespan (akin to the shorter lifespan of a mouse)?
The maze I traveled through one recent Friday was the hotel lobby bar at Casa del Mar in Santa Monica. It’s a spacious arena for mingling, but the vibe of possibilities quickly dissipates as you remember, like much of L.A., it’s B.Y.O.B. (bring your own buddies). As I grabbed a seat at the bar, wondering how women can know I’m not worth looking at if they don’t look at me, I heard a nearby one ask, “How are you?” Turning to catch a glimpse of the friend on the receiving end of this query, I realized it was me. I wasn’t invisible? Now I knew how Patrick Swayze felt in “Ghost.”
She congratulated me for finding a nearby parking spot. I mentioned my grocery receipt had congratulated me for being five gallons away from a free gallon of milk, and now this! Laughing, she agreed that “congratulations” has been watered down a lot lately. I congratulated her for being so perceptive. She laughed again. We were new music to our ears on its way up the charts. Though our honeymoon was minus the consummation, I wondered how possible it was to freeze at this level.
She asked the bartender where he was from. I sneaked a peek at other ladies nearby. No longer the center of each other’s universes, we’d reached the comfort level of our relationship. She shared the “annoying” qualities in her ex, one of which (unbeknownst to her) resembled mine. She’d taught her parrot to tell him to “get lost.” Considering how long a parrot can live, I remarked that it must be weird to know your obituary could be lining your pet’s cage someday. She seemed more dismayed than amused.
We turned to another subject that rattles cages: presidential politics. She wished the Governator would run. After I reminded her why he can’t, she seemed more annoyed with me than the Constitution. This was the earliest sign of dating duress since the woman on Match.com warned potential suitors: “Don’t waste my time if you don’t have a picture!” (Our first fight, and I hadn’t even met her yet.)
IN this accelerated relationship of ours, I could more clearly remember our promising beginning. I tried to rewind to that point, telling her I admired the patience it took to teach a bird English. I was on my way. Now, if she could only teach the Governator, I wisecracked, she could kill “two birds,” so to speak. Suddenly, I was starting to think the parrot’s message to her ex needn’t be changed for me.
I retired as “mouse.” With another mouse click, I later began a relationship blissfully stuck in honeymoon mode: Back-and-forth prefabricated “flirts” between two dating-site trial members too cheap to sign up: “Wink! Wink!” ... “Hey, cutie, you’re the type I’d like to bring home to mother!” As long as we never get around to actually communicating, we’ll live on forever.
