Spring came early to Denver this year, shortening snowboarding season, but yanking me out of my seasonal doldrums by infusing my days with sun and my nighttime staggers home with starry skies, gentle breezes, and a distinct lack of bite in the air.
Which meant, as opposed to her previous birthday celebrations, when we could just as easily be socked in with a foot or more of snow on the ground, Simone and the other kids were able to play outside in the courtyard of our complex while the grownups caught up on each other’s lives.
Simone hosted her birthday sleepover party at her other house this year, so I opted to throw an open house-style brunch for her on a Sunday afternoon. We invited our Denver family — old friends/aunties/uncles — some with kids, some without, and I cooked like crazy to make sure everyone was fed and happy.
And Simone, being the stellar hostess and big sister that she is, eventually ushered all of the kids outside (even the younger siblings), and kept an eye on them while they played.
It was down to just a few of us, and I’m not sure how it came up, exactly, but my best married friend and I started sharing the story of our falling out and rapprochement.
I was puttering around the kitchen — wiping down counters, putting away pots and pans, rearranging the bottom rack of the dishwasher to see if I could squeeze in one last plate — when BMF said something I hadn’t heard him say before.
“My best friend was going through massive changes in his life, and all I could do was whine that he wasn’t hanging out with me as often.”
I’m pretty sure this was the first time I’d heard him acknowledge that he could have been a bit more conscious of the transitions, fears, and stress of my newly upside-down life (nine years ago, now) — that maybe a bit more patience and understanding would have served us both better.
As I emptied the espresso filter into the kitchen sink, giving it an extra knock to eject the last few grains of dark coffee, I described it this way — when Simone’s mom left, my lifestyle was suddenly bifurcated into two very different worlds; on Simone days, I was a suburban family man; mowing the lawn, repairing broken sprinkler heads, keeping the Big Blue House in order. But when I wasn’t parenting, the last thing I wanted to do was wallow in the suburban reminders of a life’s path that had left me behind.
I had three best friends at the time — my best married friend, my other newly single hapless friend, and the confirmed bachelor.
“Yeah, and you chose the confirmed bachelor over me!” BMF teased as he sat at the kitchen counter, smiling.
The confirmed bachelor was my Virgil into the magical, dangerous world of the single life.
He knew how to glamorize the joys of all-night debauchery: we wore suits every day, drank martinis all night, smiled at the girls, and owned every room. It was heady and intoxicating in more than the literal sense. And though I never, ever partook in the extracurricular activities that allowed my cronies to stay energized all through the night, I still held my own, building a tolerance to vodka and a taste for the nightlife.
Best married friend didn’t stand a chance.
Even after we’d started talking again , our interaction was limited. I remember, just after our big talk, BMF learned that it was my turn to keep Simone for New Year’s Eve, and he asked if I’d bring her to their house for the party they were hosting. The girls could play, we could talk and hang out, I’d meet his friends, and then we’d all do a kid-friendly countdown at 10pm. It sounded like a great idea.
It was a solid 40 minute drive to their place on the southeast part of town, but Simone was happy about seeing her old friend again, and I was looking forward to mending my relationship with my pal and his lovely wife.
And things started out great. Simone immediately disappeared upstairs with the girls, my friend poured me a tall, cold Guinness, and the three of us basked in the glow of our unique (some would say literary, pun-infested, geeky) sense of humor, which manifested itself within minutes of our little reunion. And then the friends started to show up — every one of them a couple. Gradually, to my dismay, conversation moved from pop culture to the mundane domestic topics that homeowners love to share — from lawn care, to work, to household maintenance.
The people around me had so much in common with each other, with their similar lifestyles and inside jokes, and I felt totally out of place — the urban single guy who owned a townhouse in a funky neighborhood downtown. The more they talked, the less I had to say, and I found myself counting the minutes until I could politely collect my daughter (who’d immediately made new friends and was thoroughly enjoying herself) and hop the highway home.
It wasn’t that my friends didn’t do everything in their power to make me feel welcome; it was just that I was the odd man out — made painfully clear when we all counted down the NYC new year, and I was the lone adult in the room not wrapped up in a kiss. To be fair, BMF did pucker up after kissing his wife, but I declined.
By midnight, Simone was sound asleep in her bed, and I was alone on the couch, watching “Across the Universe” and thinking about love and loneliness.
So as we reminisced and laughed mirthlessly at our mutual screw-ups and missed opportunities to communicate properly, and BMF asked whether I’d be willing to suck it up and visit the suburbs sometime so our girls could get to know each other again, the first thing I thought of was that night.
But, you know, as we heard the laughter of the kids waft in through and open window, the thought of hanging with my friend and his family way down in the ‘burbs didn’t sound as bad as it used to. In fact, it sounded pretty awesome to have some “family” time like that.
So that’s what I’ve been thinking about as the month has wound its way down. The idea of domestic activities — like chilling with family friends while the kids play, or spending a day tinkering around the house, or...you know...hitting Home Depot for a grill and a new toilet mechanism with that one right girl — doesn’t give me hives and a stomachache like it used to. I’m not saying I’m ready to give up my urban lifestyle for a home on the range, but maybe, just maybe, the PTSD from those early post-divorce days in the ‘burbs is finally fading.
Maybe I’m ready for a more balanced life, where there’s room in it for both my single, carousing, man-child friends and the grown-up, married ones with kids and a yard. And, of course, if someone special makes her way into our lives, those experiences will be even better.
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