Navel Gazing

A Dreamer

I've always been a dreamer. My strongest desires from childhood as I imagined my adult self didn't foresee an esteemed career or an amassed fortune. Today, with career aspirations over and no fortune to boast, I can claim to have seen that lack of vision through to fruition. It was always important to be a good son, brother, friend, and eventually, father. I can proudly say that my steadfast dedication to that aspiration still remains, and I have raised four boys. Yet, back then, the highlight of my dreams was to find the right person with whom to share my life.

I can recall youthful fantasies of waking each morning to an embrace and heartfelt declarations of "I Love You" to each other. I would spend my life making her happy and being worthy of her love. In return, she would love me and show appreciation for all that I provided. Together, we would create a family that would mirror our love, become our purpose, strengthen our commitment, and be the source of our deepest and most fulfilling happiness.

Those romanticized desires from adolescence led to unrealistic expectations in adulthood. As I started dating, I quickly racked up numerous short-term and failed relationships. One of the two of us would eventually become bored or disappointed, and within months, at most a year, it was over—a pattern I followed from my teen years through my early twenties.

Sometimes today, as I scroll through my Facebook feed, I see glimpses of happy lives—past participants from distant memories, now viewed in current time and displayed in their proud moments. I'm not envious of their lives. I know I am responsible for mine, and have played a part in all of its good and bad. I also know that the moments presented are just that, moments, and may not fully represent the reality of their lives, as imagined by me.

Occasionally, I'll come across a post left by an old girlfriend and find myself fantasizing of a chance encounter; nothing sordid, just a friendly reunion and the conversation that would take place. I casually glance at the pictures shared by her—snapshots of vacations or family events—and pause briefly as I imagine us together and the life that might have been. Nothing seen as creepy, hopefully, if my opinion counts, just an indulgence entertained and perhaps a wish to make up for moments from the past. Those certain actions taken that form regret later in life and time has rendered unresolvable. I know that what still exists in my mind today, with varying levels of infatuation or regret, is likely forgotten or insignificant to them.

I've never been particularly good at relationships, even worse at quick encounters. Over the years, I've compiled a number of one-night stands, a string of occasional and far-between events that resulted, without exception, in unease, and sometimes, humorous outcomes.

The earliest, foggily recalled, was with a girl I met at the train station. It was summertime,1982, and just before heading back to college. I learned she was returning from a concert. The reason for being there evades me; most likely, I was transporting my Aunt Velma, who at times used the train to return home after a visit.

We found ourselves together on the platform at the final train stop. I have no memory of our conversation or the detail of the connection that must have occurred. I offered her a ride home, and somewhere along the way, it was decided she would come with me to my parents' house.

She wasn't the first girl I had to sneak past my father, who, for as long as I can remember, would sit at the kitchen table until the early morning hours reading or watching a favorite PBS program. He would snack on an orange, and afterward, painstakingly nibble on the soft white underside of the peel, leaving only the few seeds and now paper-thin skin on the napkin in front of him.

His choices weren't limited to healthy snacks, and just as often, he would enjoy a bowl of ice cream or some other sweet. My father maintained a sedentary lifestyle and, whether responsible or not for his diabetes and the kidney disease that later would end him, it wouldn't have hurt to develop better habits earlier in his life... says the son, who at age 13 was recognized by his 7th-grade peers with the Smokey-the-Bear award for consuming the most cigarettes during that school year.

The girl was older, and pretty; they all were back then—less a statement of my capabilities and more about the beauty of youth in general.  Although the fine detail of her image is gone, I do remember being surprised by the size of her breasts; larger than expected on such a thin frame, and years before implants were commonplace. The things remembered, right?

I assume the sex was not memorable for either of us. I'm sure I was easily satisfied, and just as certain that she was not.  What I think about most when recalling that encounter is how comical I must have seemed to her.

I was in decent enough shape, having started lifting weights late in high school, and was more proud than I had a right to be. I went through a nightly regimen of push-ups, pull-ups, and sit-ups. Although choosing to skip the routine of -ups that evening, and after successfully sneaking past my father and returning from the bathroom to my room, where she had undressed and was now waiting for me in my bed, I found it necessary to perform a set of bench-press. How ridiculous that image must have seemed to her as I pushed out a set of 25, wearing only a pair of tightey-whiteies.

Not long after, I replaced that style of underwear, worn throughout my youth, with colorful and slim-cut bikini briefs, and when home one weekend from college, upon them doing my laundry and revealed to me years later, prompted a laughable behind-my-back conversation between sister and mom, as they pondered my sexuality.

I was reminded of that conversation as I listened to my two youngest boys who, back then, still lived at home. My then 17-year-old, Levi, pranced around the house in Calvin Klein designer underwear. He was proud of his tall 6-foot-1-inch frame and athletic build; that youthful symmetry, the perfect combination of bone and muscle. That awkward stage remembered between teenage years and being full-grown, that most try to rush past, then later in life refer to as their 'glory years.'

Levi confidently remained unfazed as he was assaulted with yells of "You're gay!" that came from the direction of his younger brother's room.
John, who was the same age then as I was in 1976, seemed younger than that Marlboro cigarette-smoking boy.  He was taking a break from his homework (or more likely Xbox) and failed at his attempt to get under his older brother's skin. He was rewarded with Levi's predictable response: "You're gay."

This shared snippet of banter between brothers, an example of the immature dialogue that accompanied a majority of communication in our nearly all-male household, was our version of family life. It is a lamentable version that now, as child-rearing days draw close to an end, and admittedly, we acted inappropriately often, still, I can't help thinking back upon affectionately.

Genetics aside, I wonder what effect I will have played, and my failed relationships, on their own experiences with women. I encourage them to foster the relationship with their mom, as I know from experience its importance.

It seems that so much of parenting is wasted on attempts to have our children avoid the pitfalls that we parents did not. Only time will reveal, and I remain always hopeful.