Have you ever reached a point at which you’re sick of crap? The moment when so many annoyances brim over, saturate the tablecloth, stain the wood beneath, and you just can’t haul ass to the dry cleaner any more?
Epiphany, light bulb, suspended state of perfect clarity, thunderclap of Jesus Christ, I have had it, I am no longer doing this.
As I wrote to my college roommate this week: “To quote Donna Summer, enough is enough.”
Everyone should have a college roommate like mine. A quarter century later, we are still roommates. Transcontinental roommates.
I recently posted a comment on the Facebook status update of a lovely youngster, friend of another young friend. She’d posted that at 24, she had so much to learn. Wait until you’re 44, I said. It does get so much better in myriad ways. The big however is that you pay a price for the improvement of life and love: a quickening of time. Everything goes faster and faster. One moment my roomie and I are buying Pepperidge Farm Ginger Man cookies and eating them at Tappan Square, we are grumpy and more than a tad self destructive; the next we are in grad school, then getting married and divorced and procreating and managing all sorts of issues we never anticipated as 18-year-old students of Derrida and recipients of Lancome care packages.
As I told my roommate, I am writing some rules. What I will and will not tolerate. I advised her to read it. We are quite similar. The 24-year-old girl should consider it too.
#1: Keep narcissists where they belong, in Marie Claire self-help articles and their own therapists’ offices.
#2: If you can’t yak with someone in his or her kitchen, you and they do not share a relationship.
#3: Band-aids are for paper cuts. Do not be a human Band-aid for someone else, no matter how you love them.
You get older and things get easier. I recognize the perpetuation of garbage much quicker.
So: Shalom and godspeed, my Cavalcade of Unavailables. I love you, but I’ve had enough.