I never suspected that I would struggle so regularly with ethics, morals, and the question of following or departing from social mores. Had I known that so much of my life would seem like my character was being tested at every turn, I probably would have majored in Philosophy. Or Government.
Why is it that doing the right thing is far from easy? And why does doing the wrong thing come so naturally – and feel so good? Well, I should clarify that it usually feels good for a moment. Unfortunately, I have had more than my fair share of heartbreak and I have carried around a lifetime of guilt because I didn’t do what I knew was right at the time.
Once upon a time, I accepted a date with an older coworker. I was fresh out of college, coming off my breakup with Buck. I was socially idealistic, emotionally damaged, and universally courting trouble. He was a recently divorced man in his early 40s with a grade-school aged son. He was artistically idealistic, financially damaged, and universally courting pussy.
Many of the months in the year following Buck are like a blank appointment book. I know that they happened, that I survived them, but there was hardly any life in my living. I remember the stupid, destructive things that I took part in, but most of the faces and places and names specific to my daily existence don’t feel like they could possibly have belonged to me. In the case of Peter, I have a vague recollection of going to dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant that was at standing room only capacity, and then going to a local theater to see Evita. After the movie, we may have gone for drinks, but I can only remember finding myself following Peter back to his place.
He lived in a second story apartment in a rust-colored triple-decker that was located in a suburb just outside the city. Despite being the apartment he had taken after his divorce, it had a restfulness and a hominess to it. Peter was a photographer and although his full time job was in a call center, he had big dreams of owning his own studio. I have a recollection of listening to an 80s show on the local college radio station and looking through portfolios of Peter’s work in dim amber light. Predictably, he tried to persuade me to have sex with him and I have an indistinct memory of nearly going through with it. In the end, I thought better of sleeping with him. For the life of me, I cannot remember what convinced me not to or what excuse I cooked up to avoid following through, but I doubt I was very firm in my resolve, and to Peter’s credit, he didn’t push his agenda, although I would have been an easy and captive target.
The reason I bring up this story is because of all the murky memories of this evening (including whether or not Peter and I even kissed), one thing stands out as clear as a saxophone in a woodwind ensemble. In making the case why we should top off the evening with a visit to his bedroom, Peter said, “It’s all practice.” For all I know, this could have been the reason I decided to decline his kind offer. At the time, I had the feeling that this was a fairly sleazy thing to say. Now, after fifteen years of my own experiences, I think Peter was onto something.
When I consider some of the things I have encountered and undergone, particularly those things that were very poor decisions, I can see the wisdom in Peter’s statement. I’d like to think that I’ve been able to log my mistakes and learn from them. I’d like to think that I am a better person, not because I ever did those things in the first place, but because each experience gave me a basis for knowing how to handle what came next.
After having the joke I made to a lonely middle aged man turned around on me with complete sincerity, I realized that he couldn’t distinguish between jesting and reality. Now when I need to interact with him, I am all business.
After a few episodes of foolishly drinking one beer after the other on an empty stomach, only to discover after it’s too late that I am in a vulnerable and unsafe situation, I finally learned how to supervisee my alcohol intake.
After allowing myself to be seduced by a married man, seeing how friends responded to his overt cavorting, and dealing with my own guilt at transgressing the boundaries of his marriage vow (because I know how it feels thanks to my father’s unfaithfulness), I am more wary of my familiarity with married men. Now, when I come across one that outright solicits me, I urge him to go make things right with his wife.
If you are lucky enough to have never struggled with anything like this, let me tell you, it’s damn hard. Sometimes a single person is lacking for attention, affection, appreciation, or a combination of all three. Sometimes you just want to sow some wild oats, and doing a dangerous thing seems exciting. And sometimes whatever reasons the married man throws out sound so plausible that you trick yourself into thinking that no harm will come of it.
It takes an unimaginable amount of willpower to say no when he’s absolutely gorgeous and captivating and you’d venture to guess that he’s an expert at the indecent things he’s suggested to you and you really just want to accept his proposition since it’s all practice, anyway, right?
And that’s where making informed decisions based on experience comes into play. Or if you don’t have the depth of experience yourself, to learn from the gaffes of your elders and wisers. Some days you’ve got it. And I seem to be having one of those weeks.
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