Vol II: #43 Bachelor Days
I made chicken soup from scratch earlier today. Like most of my “recipes,” it’s a mishmash of American and Asian ingredients. To almost anyone, the broth tastes familiar and simultaneously unique. Most people, including you, would probably be able to discern the ginger and green onion, but probably not the orange peel, star anise, or cardamom. The overall flavor is deep and rich and I’m pleased with the result. It’s a chicken soup worthy of my talents and pallet as a former cook. I will eat a few bowl of the soup this week, and turn the remaining into gifts before I fly to Columbia for Christmas.
After I jarred my delicious effort, I cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, and took out the trash. And like most days, I stood completely alone in my triumph. It’s getting old-these unshared moments of glory. Unfortunately, I see no end in sight. Late Thursday evening, I’ll climb into my car, and turn down I-5 toward Sacramento to begin my 12 hour trip to Columbia. Again, once more, I will do this alone. And as mentioned before, it’s getting old. Each trip, I am the shaggy single man, moving in and out between families and young lovers at the airport, determined to appear content. Book in hand and earbuds in place, I watch as fathers look over their sons and mothers fuss at their daughters. I hope they appreciate the fleeting reality of the moment, how fortunate and blessed they are to be stranded together if a flight is delayed. Do they know, not everyone has what they have, and how it’s not so easy for some of us? I hope so. Just ask and I’ll tell you.
I don’t feel this way all the time- lonely. Mostly, I see my singleness as a stage of life closer to its end than ever before. The frustrating part is I can’t educate or buy my way out of this condition. I know, deep in my rigid heart, I’ve got to make choices, to ask for and eventually go on dates. The problem is I don’t want to ask for dates. The last time I dared love a woman, she fucking crushed me. Were I younger, I’d think it an apparition, but at 41 it seems like the trend. It’s not as though I haven’t learned from each experience: there was the agnostic dance teacher, the drug-addict stripper, the dog-loving school teacher, the essential oils lady, the worship leader, and then the wondrous kitchen manager. No matter what, the result was the same. And accept for the stripper, I was the one left behind so they could move onto bigger and better.
My mind knows this plague will end at the long end of an isle surrounded by my friends and family. Somewhere, buried beneath the disappointment, my heart believes it too. So I’m writing this blog not to elicit sympathy or pity, but as a signpost for the future me, for my children, and anyone caught in a similar pattern of heartache. At the moment, my heart isn’t ready to move forward, but that day will come. But on this day, all I got is a thread of hope and the wisdom to dismiss the associated shame. God is good, and so am I, even in my loneliness. All things end in this world, and by the grace of God so will my days as a bachelor.
