As convoluted as my life is, a few things have remained very clear. Like not wanting a serious relationship. Or not getting married until I’m in my thirties, if ever. Even trivial details such as the type of flooring in my loft or the model of Porsche I’ll be driving are part of this blueprint that is my future.
When I envision what’s ahead, I see myself in airports with good friends, listening to my iPod, planning the next great adventure. I imagine crisp, white sheets on a bed that hides my secrets and a fridge stocked with to-go boxes and bottled water. I imagine the kind of independent, wonderful and untroubled lifestyle that all my married/divorced/loser friends will secretly covet. And all the shit attacks I have about grad school, my mounting credit card bills or getting laid seem fleeting when I focus on the permanence of my end goal. Amidst all the variables, the concept of my future-self is my tangible answer to the mid-twenties. So you can imagine my surprise this weekend at a family party when that idyllic life was shattered.
I avoid taking girls to family parties because a) I am Filipino and parties= awkward situations/probing questions, b) I would rather not subject my FEMALE friend to a situation she is not contractually bound by blood to endure and c) I swore off it after my mom wrote me a well-intentioned email a few years back about some girl I was dating who had a kid. But I had been neglecting this one particular friend and I knew she missed her family on the east coast so I thought it would be a perfect scenario. And it was, which is the problem.
We snuck out of my aunt’s swank new house to check out the model homes down the street (one of my favorite pastimes). As usual, in order to get a pricelist and brochure, you have to fill out a questionnaire and appear to be seriously in the market for a million dollar house and not just another underage teenage boy with a fetish for nice furniture. My friend suggested that we pretend to be a newly married, ubersuccessful couple. Of course I agreed because I love to make believe. We pretended through model units 1-6, never missing a beat. We pointed out components of each home that would compliment our fake life together: “This garden area is perfect for the brunches we’ll have together every Saturday morning because no matter how busy our lives get, we have to make time to enjoy each other’s company.” At one point she even lamely/cutely encouraged me to get into a tub and talk about my stressful day at the hospital only so that she could complain about her horrible day at the office (I know, barf). Usually I go to these things by myself or with my cousin and talk about all the things I could do with the space or lament about the tragic design but this time it was different because she had her own ideas and…. opinion. I had to mimic compromise. But it was nice, really. And when she dedicated the downstairs bedroom to our visiting parents (they would watch the kids [3 boys] whenever we went on vacation), sized the backyard up for a swimming pool, or put her arm around mine, I thought nothing of it beyond two big kids playing the grownup mental equivalent of dress-up. That was until we returned to the party.
Being that it was a baptismal celebration, kids were everywhere. So many kids, you’d think we were Mormon. After our 4th trip to the food and the 19837th question about our dating status, we thought we found refuge in the living room with a grandma and her infant grandson. Smitten by his cuteness, my friend decided to borrow the kid and test her skills. She bounced the baby on her lap. She held the creature up in the air. She even talked to it in that annoying baby voice, all the while smiling at me as if to show off her charm. And that’s when it happened. BAM! A feeling crept up from the area that holds my tiny heart, traveling slowly up my throat, finally manifesting itself as a smile on my face. In front of me was a beautiful woman, holding a beautiful baby, in a beautiful house full of happy people. Suddenly I noticed the Benz SUV parked outside and the brown loafers at the foot of the stairs. I was even wearing a daddy polo. It was an image that all at once scared the hell out of me and made me so happy that I yelled for the poor girl to return the child to the grandma and stormed off to get more chocolate covered strawberries.
I was perplexed as fuck. My confusion had little to do with my friend (I could never date her for homie-related reasons) but she provided me with a glimpse of an option that I never considered before. And that’s unnerving because especially on days like the ones I’ve been having lately in which I roll out of bed at noon and debate whether or not I should shower, I find solace in knowing that it’s just a transition phase into my alone-but-not-lonely bachelor life. I had never imagined Alann: Conventional Version; a newly presented alternative of late breakfasts and relaxing baths with one person, 637. Most confusing part of it all is I think I could be successful at it too. Rims on a mini-van. Packed-lunches, even. And now I can’t return to a simpler time: A rapid succession of beautiful people in my bed serving as the little spoon; nothing to tether me from hopping on a plane and disappearing for x amount of time. I’m in think mode. Did I really want that ‘empty’ existence? Or did I just trick myself into believing that I wanted to be independent because I couldn’t find anyone I really liked? Had I committed myself to that lifestyle because I knew deep deep deep down inside that I might never have the kind of life my mom/society/god wants me to have?
In order to function, I think we have to operate believing very few truths. But the danger in that is that sometimes you're presented with something new that nullifies their corresponding dreams and all of a sudden you find yourself flailing. No longer grounded. Visions of concrete floors and a Porsche 911 Turbo in the basement garage become fuzzy. I can no longer see the goal, picture my ultimate happiness.
