Song of Myself — A Duet

I’m a fuckup.

You are not a fuckup. What are you talking about, you’re a fuckup?

I just am. You know I am.

Why don’t you tell the blog-reading folks what you’re talking about.

Fine. About a week ago I realized I was nearly broke, wasn’t going to be able to pay my rent at the beginning of the month. I knew I’d have to ask my parents for money. Again. But then my state tax refund came in, which allowed me at least to pay my rent, but I probably wouldn’t have enough to cover my bills before my next paycheck came. So yesterday I called my dad and asked him for money. He eventually told me he’d give it to me, but not before giving me a lecture about how I should get a part-time job. But I’ve already been there, I’ve already had a part-time job, I’m already working in one full-time job, why should I get an additional job? Why didn’t he just tell me to find a cheaper apartment, why did it have to be a part-time job?

Okay. And this makes you a fuckup?

Clearly! I’m a lazy-ass son of a bitch who thinks he’s entitled to things. Who doesn’t want to work for them.

Excuse me. You went through three years of law school. You’re telling me you’re someone who doesn’t want to work?

Yeah, well, I didn’t work as hard as I could have. My law school grades weren’t exactly stellar.

You went to one of the nation’s top law schools, and you’re complaining.

Yeah.

Why do you hold yourself to a higher standard than other people? What gives you that right?

What do you mean, that right? I hate it. And anyway, because it’s true. I’ve always had to meet this higher standard.

Why?

Why? Because. When I was a kid, I got approval for being good. For being smart. For both of those. It wasn’t just the brains, it was the rule-following. It was the well-behaving. From my teachers. My teachers loved me when I was a kid. And from my parents. And from my friends’ parents. Everyone always expected so much of me. When I was in kindergarten I could recite the months of the year and the days of the week, backwards.

Okay.

So I’ve expected that everyone I met in life would judge me. Evaluate me.

But you know what you’ve learned in the last few years. You’ve learned that people don’t want to hang around with someone who’s perfect. People want to hang around with someone who’s a little fucked up. Most of all, people want to hang around with someone whose company they enjoy.

Good point… and anyone who reads this blog is probably going to get the impression that I’m not a very fun person.

Well, that’s because they haven’t met you in person. And anyway, you can be a fun person. You’re warm, you’re caring, you have a good sense of humor. You have some friends.

Yeah. Some.

What do you want, the whole world to be your friends? You want to be Mr. Social Glad-hander who knows someone in every state?

That would be nice.

Get back to this: people are not evaluating you. People are friends with you because they enjoy your company. Or because they think you’re cute. Or both.

Okay. But I’m still fucked up.

Go on with the story. There’s more.

Okay. So, I called my dad back a couple of hours later and suggested we go out to dinner. In the past, he’d said that I didn’t communiciate with him enough. Like I’d want to communicate with someone who always has a way of driving it into my head that I’m a fuckup? Anyway, at my mom’s suggestion, a few weeks ago he called me to have dinner. So we did. So I decided I’d call him up and see if he wanted to have dinner again. You know? Making the effort. So he couldn’t accuse me of avoiding him. He was glad to have dinner with me. So last night we met in the city and went to TGI Friday’s. My second time there in three nights. Neither of which was a Friday.

Anyway. I had the exact same thing I’d had two nights earlier, except it was a few dollars more because this was Manhattan. Which didn’t matter, because he was paying. We talked for a while, but there were some points of contention about me and about the decisions I make. About why it’s so distasteful for me to get a part-time job. About why I feel like I’m above it. Well, I don’t feel like I’m above it. I just don’t feel like working an extra job. “You know, if you were working in a law firm, you’d be working those late hours anyway.” Yeah. And that’s exactly why I’m not working in a law firm, Dad. You know what? My twenties are almost over. I’ve wasted most of them. Three years of law school that I wish I hadn’t gone to. I wish I’d had more fun. So I’m making up for it now. Dad, I’m only going to be in my twenties once. I want to enjoy them.

So I say that to him, all of that. But he’s like a paper towel. No, a sponge. He’s like this big sponge, this big spongy wall that absorbs everything I’m saying and dissolves it. Okay, I guess he’s an acidic sponge.

Forget the metaphor. What are you trying to say?

What I’m trying to say is that I have all these arguments that make no logical sense, that cannot be explained by practicality, and I feel them in my heart. But I start to say them all to my dad, Mr. Practical, and even as the words are coming out of my mouth I can see them disintegrating in their ridiculous impracticality. Those words don’t belong on this planet. I don’t belong on this planet. Do you know how impractical I am? Incredibly impractical. My dad is not impractical. My dad is very practical. My brother is practical. Or at least outgoing. Or at least he seems to care less about what other people think. The world was made for him. He and the world move in the same direction. Me — it’s like everyone else was given the instruction book except me. The world moves in practical ways. But I live in an unreal universe. Where I live, nothing makes sense. None of my decisions make any sense.

Tell them what your dad told you. What you learned about him.

Okay. Toward the end of the dinner I decided I had to take the heat off myself. Wanted to turn it into more of a conversation. Wanted to be a listener. I asked him, “Do you have any regrets? I mean, not about me. I mean about your life in general.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I wish I’d gone to law school.”

I already knew that, but then he told me the story. My dad graduated from college in 1970. Toward the end of college, he applied to law school. He got into Columbia and NYU. Terrific schools. He was also afraid he’d get drafted. So he applied to the reserves. Which would have been a full-time deal. He thought that’s what he was going to do, be in the reserves. So he deferred his law school admissions. But I guess his draft number didn’t come up or something. So he didn’t have to go into the reserves. The next year, he applied to those law schools again (I guess you had to reapply), and this time he didn’t get in. He thinks it’s because he didn’t complete his honors project. Who knows.

So, who’s the fuckup? He’s calling me a fuckup?

Has he actually called you a fuckup?

I don’t know. You can’t trust your memory sometimes, you know? Anyway, that’s the message I’ve got from him over the course of my life. I’m impractical. I don’t live in reality. I expect my parents to save me. I act like a child. I don’t take responsibility.

Anyway, he can be an argumentative little fuck. He likes to argue. He would have made a great lawyer. He argues with me, he argues with my mom, he and my brother argue with each other, because my brother picked up his wise-ass-ness somewhere along the line. My dad always has to be right. Always.

You might want to wrap this up, because at this point your readers might start to get bored.

I know. I always write long entries. Too long. Tell my readers I’m well aware of that fact.

At least you have the potential to be a prolific writer.

But this is what I do. I think too much. This is how I work myself out of it. Writing.

And you can write damn well. You’re a fuckup, with that skill?

Doesn’t matter. I’m completely impractical. I can’t make decisions. I have to do one of two things right now — increase my income or decrease my expenses. Get a cheaper apartment. Look for someone who wants a roommate. And I’m not making any progress.

Oh, NO! You’re being lazy. What a scandal. Maybe people won’t like you!

Stop… no, see, the thing is, I equate everyone else with my brother. My brother represents the imperfect, flawed, outgoing, fun people in the world, the people who criticize someone like me. He represents the normal people. Those who accept their imperfection and go out into the world and make the most of themselves anyway. In fact he represents every twentysomething in the world. I’m the only one who doesn’t know the rules; he and everyone else know the rules; he criticizes me and thinks I’m a fuckup; ergo, everyone in the world thinks I’m a fuckup.

But he got that from your father.

Who knows. It’s true. I’m Mr. Impractical. Unreality. I’m starting to sound like a broken record.

Okay, look. Fine. You’re a fuckup. What are you going to do about it?

Oh, yeah. The question my friend asked me once.

Yes. Either stop complaining or do something about it. Either stop being fucked up, or accept the fact that you’re fucked up. And stop using the phrase “fucked up.” You’re human. You’re just a human being.

Okay. I’m fucked up. So what am I going to do about it? I’m going to accept it, I’m going to accept my humanity, and more importantly, I’m going to stop beating myself up about it. Or at least I’m going to try. Yeah, I always say I’m going to try, and it’s true that I’ve gotten better at it over the years, but every so often I relapse. Anyway. You know what? The most important thing to me? Is to be liked.

Jeff. People do like you. And you don’t have to be Mr. Most Fun at the Party either. You don’t have to be the Most Liked Person. You just have to be you. And that will be enough.

That makes sense.

You’re not fucked up, you’re you, you’ve got lots of special qualities, and anyone would be well off knowing you.

Thanks. But isn’t that a little much? You’re being as overblown as me.

That’s because I’m you.

Right. Sorry.

And it’s not being overblown. There’s nothing egotistical about saying you’re as good as everyone else in the world.

Okay. I have some mental blocks to what you’re saying —

Emotional blocks. Psychological blocks.

Right. But anyway, I’ll try to remember what you’re saying anyway. If I can get that into my head —

Into your heart.

If I can get that into my head and into my heart, eventually, if it will percolate, work its way in, things will be good. It’s like learning something new. Learning how to think and feel in a different way. It doesn’t happen overnight.

At any rate, we have to end this thing. The readers are getting impatient.

Right.

We’ll continue this another time.

Oh, believe me, we will.

Don’t I know it.