A blur, New York City untethered.
Sleeping enough but waking up at 5 am NY time. As I’ve been tracking my sleep for about five years, it’s amazing how my physical body will simply wake up when an appropriate amount of REM sleep has restored me. Sometimes, it’s way to fucking early. Sometimes, like in New York, I took advantage of the freaky morning show of the Upper West Side waking up.
Rats scurry. Street sweepers buzz by pushing the filth along down the road a bit. A few stragglers with a hand out, even at this time of morning. Maybe they are sleeping with their hand out. I leave them unmolested.
For three mornings after the mountain retreat I woke too damn early. The room had no coffee maker. The 24-hour diners in my area were all opening at 8 am. And Dunkin Donuts was the best option I had. But the city! The hum!
Loneliness didn’t strike me. Yes, I had stayed in this hotel less than a year ago with my now-ex girlfriend and her son. It was delightful. This trip, however, I dove into the alone moments, the explorations at 5 am and 6 am that would not have been “shared experiences” either way. So I had a lot of solo experiences.
I am emerging stronger, lighter, and more energized. It’s good. The writing is blooming still. (Evidence right here.) And my joy is immense. I have these moments during each day where I check in, “Wow, I’m really happy. I’m in one of those glow moments.” And it keeps happening day after day.
I hunt for work online for a few hours. I write for more hours. I get my exercise in. I go to bed early, now, back in my own house. I wake and join the 105 springs in my hot tub while the coffee is gurgling. It is a happy life. Yes, I’m interested in a companion. Maybe, not right now.
I was also on a mission in New York. I did have a darker agenda. Explore everything the city has to offer. (Discretion is advised) I wanted some connection. Some, not action, in reality, but maybe a coffee date, a hello in Central Park, a balm to the sore body and clear heart I was walking around with. Nothing doing. The women who came out of Bumble expressed desires, set dates, and never arrived. Odd.
Perhaps I was also getting a lesson. Just be still. Shut the fuck up. Write. Explore. Feel the loss, feel the ache of your breakup, the loss of your best friend. Feel in HD. Maybe even emotions and visions in VR! This is reality, the big city, the world of women, saying, “Nope.”
Okay, that was actually good. I got more sleep. Napped during an afternoon rainstorm. At tacos at the tiny shop across the street. Wondered about no one else’s agenda or needs. Just me. Just only John, in NYC.
The morning of my flight home I was wandering with my bagel and bad coffee for a sitting place to enjoy the rising son, the last day in central park, and my anticipated return to my own little Hell’s Kitchen back in Austin. I watched a wonderful sunrise over the Resevoir. I sat near the Central Park Tennis Club courts and watched the Zamboni smooth and groom the courts. A group of players, mostly men of my age, were gathering near the clubhouse.
“I brought a guitar instead of a tennis racket this year,” I told a man who was queuing up for the club opening. I guess they have 36 courts. 30 of them are “first come first serve.” So at 7 am when the doors opened, this entire group would file in and form doubles matches all over the available courts. I was happy to be leaving for home. I was also making a note, getting contact information from the nice man, “I play here almost three times a week. There’s a group of us.”
Ah, just what I needed to hear. Time in New York next time would involve tennis and community and meeting others while doing something I have loved since I was 10 years old. My dad rarely played with me, though. He was a very impatient tennis partner and water ski instructor. My mom said he quit playing with her because she wasn’t good enough to give him a workout. Fk that guy. What a dick.
I learned that tennis with anyone can be fun. I loved playing tennis with my kids, even when they were just learning and most of the activity was fetching balls. I know how to find community. In NY it might hover near the Central Park tennis courts.
Odd, also how a dear New York friend becomes a ghost. The last three times in NY, I’ve called him for a coffee. Last time, excuse was Covid. Previously, too busy. This week, just no return call. Okay, I guess people let go of others for reasons they don’t have to explain. Fine. Moving on.
Alone again, naturally.
It is good to learn I travel well by myself too. Sure, I cherish shared experiences, and I also know that shared for me involves more than shopping and Starbucks wifi access. What was lovely in my relationship was also fairly empty. I am not a fan of retail therapy. If shopping is your thing (as my kids know) you’re going to need to leave me out of most of that. With my daughter, I’ll pay for some of it. With my ex-girlfriend, “I’ll wait in Starbucks. Take your time.”
That was not enough. So, alone I find that I am enough. I’m not just the guy who makes relationships fun, I’m also the guy who enjoys the company he keeps even when it’s just me and my mind. iPhone not needed, but images and video are appreciated.
New York was different this time. So much in my life has changed. Single. Son in major state of mumbly-peg. And my employment lawsuit is still a month away from mediation.
I’m out on a limb. And now I’m solo out on that limb. But it’s not really much different than it was four months ago when I busted my son for his drug habit and dealing enterprise. When the ATT was down all over the country, and no one could sit with me in my horror, I learned again about self-reliance. There is no one to call.
When my best friend died. No one to call.
Maybe this traveling-alone thing is the future for me, for a bit. I’ve decided to quit looking. I’m finishing my Bumble review today on my single-dad blog, and then I’m deleting it from my phone. Nothing there. The “premium” features are not. And the gaming of the process (Pay for additional exposure) is just like Facebook. As they decreased our social connections by showing us more and more ads, the platform began to lose it’s appeal. In online dating, they are merely trying to get you to PAY TO PLAY for this game of whack-a-mole. I’m sure it’s way worse for women. For me, and most men who are not Ryan Reynolds, it’s like Instagram.
Here’s my cool picture, hit like. Here’s what I like to do, do you like it too? Hit like. “Hi, I love tennis too, let’s set a time to hit.” Pass. Nothing. Nada.
Even in the huge market of the New York metroplex, I was having a hard time finding actual women to have conversations with. I understand that my standards might be a lot higher than my worth, but that’s what it’s about. Here I am. What do you like? How would you like to meet? And, even the two different ladies with so much promise… Ghosts.
Time to unmatch on all of the dating apps. I have more success walking through an organic grocery section of Whole Foods. Or, perhaps, on the tennis court. Who knows? What I do know it this: online dating is self-harm for me. All that “oh my, how attractive” and “holy shit, did you think that “resting face” was going to call in some partners?” It’s a shit show online. People are lazy. There are a lot of scammers.
One prospect on Bumble came quickly into my DMs and suggested a meeting the next day. “Great, let’s go for coffee and a walk in Central Park.” She said she was thinking of a massage. Huh? “Oh, great, I’d love to trade massages. I do more of a Thai Massage style, I hope that’s okay.” She was looking for massage clients using Bumble. I unmatched and reported her. Guess she’s running 20 or more accounts to see if a massage is in your future. I didn’t need to tell her, “The massage parlors are on every corner here with happy endings implied. What exactly do I know about you, other than your fake profile, at this point? Bye!”
Back here in the present world, the temperature is going to get to 106 by 4 pm today. I’m glad my Friday Night Tennis buddy has taken me off the roster. It’s too fucking hot. I played last night at 6 pm. Too damn hot. Today, I’ve got a noon cardio workout, still too damn hot, but not over 100 degrees until later.
My son was supposed to work today. I didn’t feel like being his babysitter, arguing him awake, only to take him to the job site and have to sit and wait with him to make sure he actually does get a gig. It’s bullshit. We are not waiting for pre-auth for a more “mentally focused” program. My ex-wife has a toxic aversion to the 12-step process and my son only knows of it from his aborted attempt at the nearby drunk dry-out camp. I don’t think he got any encouragements from that experience. And from his mom, he got agreement, or at least skepticism.
I think the bigger issue is both my ex-wife and her husband would have to get sober too. That’s how family systems in recovery work. That’s NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why they wouldn’t let me do an intervention last summer.
We are still fucking around with this, let’s say 2 years in from noticing several mental issues with my son. Sure, some of it can be chalked up to Adderall, but not all of it. Where did he get the Adderall in the first place? Oh, right, mom’s good and plenty stash around the house. There’s a lot of shame in our immediate family system. We come from families with mental challenges as well. Yes. And, I need my ex-wife to get her shit together and get out of the way of my son’s recovery journey. She cannot manage, moderate, or bluster this process and she’s pissed about it. She would like to tell the doctors what he needs. She would like to provide exactly the best approach for him, but she doesn’t like the 12 steps, and…
And, she’s got nothing but her own fear and dysfunction to blame. And she and her husband live in a hole. They might still be the interference in getting my son what he needs. A spanking and a timeout. Well, maybe not a spanking, but he can get a car when he can pay for it. Sounds fair to me.
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