Forget the stormy weather for a minute. Look back and let the departed sunshine rekindle memories of summer that was. Nice, isn’t it?
As the last days of June ticked by and the thunder and the lightning slowly engulfed the glorious skies, I slowly came to realize that it had been another summer of love. It probably paled in comparison to the smoke- and alcohol-drenched Beatle months of 1967, but in my view this year still came pretty close.
March, April and May were nothing if not a barrage of teaser trailers about couples frolicking in movie theaters and on overcrowded beaches. And it pains me to say that I was a mere spectator the whole time.
Now I never really expected to be blessed with the good fortune of scoring with a different person every week (the closest I ever got to was flirting with a married waitress from Chili’s), but it’s been so long since I’ve had a roll in the haystack that I actually think my virginity is starting to grow back.
You see, folks, had it not been for the cheery, contented smiles of these oversexed bastards, I would’ve more than likely just taken it all in stride. But the fact that the past months left little to the horny imagination of an unattached twenty-something bloke naturally made it all the more difficult.
This does sound like second-rate bitching, but please do try to see it from my own point of view, eh? This past summer was a time for people with someone they love in their lives; and suffice to say that it wasn’t me.
When I was younger and somewhat prolific in work, music or writing articles, I was inconsiderate and foolish — taking for granted the people who actually cared. Now I am left with no one; all banged up and alone. Heh-heh, it’s true. But wouldn’t it be great if, this next school year, youngsters preferred reading not some smug, gifted teenage columnist but an over-the-hill hack searching for a comeback at any price? And particularly enjoy the incredible crassness with which I insert the topic of love into my first essay in almost a year. Wishful thinking, indeed.
I recently had lunch with a friend (one of the actual few I have left) and she said, matter-of-factly, that although I’ve survived the impending catastrophe of the average underachiever, I was continuously dissolute and stubbornly fondling my private thoughts in the “full view of society.” Old enough to be a parent, she said, I had left youth without having entered “respectable manhood” as a mature adult. I was momentarily taken aback by her frankness.
“How the hell can you say that!?” I sneered. “Ang kapal ng mukha mo ah…”
“Ei, no need to get defensive, Matt. All I meant was...”
“Oh, I know what you meant!”
“Well kung alam mo nga, then I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at,” she said with a gentleness that immediately made me feel sorry for my insolent tone. “But do you have any control over how juvenile you allow yourself to get? Really now…”
“Hey. If you take all the things that I’ve accomplished in my life and condense it all into one day, it looks decent, no?”
“My point exactly…” she said. “Now do you mind if I eat my mashed potatoes? It’s beginning to lump na, eh.”
I nodded. As she piled spoonfuls of that yellowish goop in her mouth, I found myself staring blankly at this elderly couple having a row at the opposite table. Funny how it reminded me of a void that has plagued my most basic instinct up to now.
Although I’ve lived for years in relative luxury, my love life has always been insignificant and unhappy. Every woman I’ve had a relationship with has ended it in heartbreak or disappointment; and the fact that I was so finicky did nothing but fuel my wretched dreams of meeting someone actually worthy of my trite affections.
Sadly, there was (and still is) much ridiculing among the people I see. If my friends found me unduly assertive and offensively magisterial, my family — particularly my baby brother — found me to be hilariously, outlandishly unmanly. I was under their scrutiny from the time I rose in the morning — usually bad-tempered — until I got into my pajamas at night. Not surprisingly, the jerks once bragged that they know my habits and moods better than “God himself.”
I am, without a doubt, a person of little importance to anybody. Having acquired the undesirable talent of spoiling any girl who shows any kind of interest towards me, I have unwittingly antagonized the whole idea of a give-and-take connection; which is probably why I’ve finally given up on the whole dating scene. My heart, in the past a haven for much prodding of love and affection, has now become a romantic wilderness.
But despite it all, I do miss missing someone. I miss the pop-ins, the late-night phone calls, the unwanted forwarded messages on my cell phone — virtually everything corny that I never gave a damn about before. The problem is, I’m pretty much exhausted with putting my emotions on the line and ending up with nobody. I guess I’ll just have to wait another year before gaining another ounce of strength to start believing again.
“Hmm… These potatoes aren’t bad. It could use a little more salt, though. Gusto mo tikman?”
“Huh? What?” I babbled, snapping out of my trance.
“The potatoes,” she said. “You wanna have some?”
“Uh, no thanks…”
My friend eyed me wearily. It was as if she knew what I’d been thinking about all this time. I stood up straight as she dabbed her napkin across her lips. I guess I’d get a nice pep talk from this meal, I thought. I leaned forward.
“Matt, do you know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“I think it has been another summer of love!”
“Really… What makes you say so?” I said without interest, praying she’d drop the subject before she started talking about it.
“Yeah. You wanna hear about it?”
“Why not,” I sighed and placed a sweaty palm on my forehead. “Do tell…”
“Well, not that you’d be able to relate to this, but try to forget the stormy weather for a minute, okay?”
* * *
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