Great expectations

I can blame it on my maternal grandmother. After drinking whiskey she would get into fights, all 5 feet and 100 lbs of her, pummeling drunk men at the bar. Really, what else would make such a tiny woman use her fists on men twice her size? The connection is in my DNA, whiskey and anger, intertwined, in between near-sightedness and high blood pressure. What else, other than the whiskey, would have made me such a bitch today?

It couldn’t have been my crush (my crutch?). So nice to him with no response other than workplace flirting. No true interest, just light, casual interactions. Nice but it’s going nowhere. And wow do I need more.

Great expectations. More like fantasy. The complete confusion of relating to other individual humans. We put out the effort, work hard, do all the right things. In our work we are rewarded, good grades, promotions, pay. But in our relationships we think, we analyze, we try to do well. Instead of success, really connecting with people, we are left empty. No reward, no prize, no A+. No grade at all, just a big old question mark taking the place of the fantasy that was supposed to take on flesh.

So do we learn from the experience? Pick ourselves up, dust off the sparkly shoes, move along? Or just sit dumbfounded, staring at the damn question mark and saying “what the fuck?”

My grandmother was never silenced, never hesitant, never confused. Maybe that’s the generational difference. Rather than saying “what the fuck?,” she fought back, she pounded her fists, she screamed back at life: “fuck you!”

Just what are you saying?

Two stories, both presented to me like secrets, carefully revealed, dangerous in the telling:

My co-worker (my crush) excitedly invites me to lunch then, over the meal, tells me about a friend of his, who is divorcing, whose wife had sex with one of her co-workers. His friend is furious, angry with his wife (no wonder), and now their divorce will happen much faster, as the husband is done with the marriage.

My friend, at dinner without her husband, tells me of a female lover who broke her heart. I have to pull details out of her, she is so cryptic with the tale, holding it close, giving up one bit of information at a time. It is clear she has not let go of this love, some 15 years later, or the sorrow associated with it.

Both stories are simple, but the tellings were not. My crush, my flirty co-worker, so energized to share his story. And my friend, lonely in her marriage, very coy in her telling. Both had an agenda, I just can’t figure out what they intended me to hear. Is my co-worker coming on to me (halleluiah, finally)? Is my friend propositioning me (interesting yet uncomfortable)? Or am I just so damn lonely that I’m hearing invitations in stories of heartbreak and pain?

My read: He tells his story out of confusion. So excited, fishing in dangerous waters, not sure at all if he wants to catch anything, or what to do with the fish if he actually lands it. She tells her story out of loneliness. She is fishing too, for a response, someone to end her physical isolation, or at least break the solitariness, to make her forget her pain for a while.

Is this what they are saying in telling their stories like they did?