The Leanover.

Two days ago, I watched from across the street - watched as he waited for me, watched as he finally found me and I stood there, unable to move.

I find contemplative moments rejuvenating. The problem with life in the summer is that understanding one’s place in the world becomes a forgotten notion. Distractions are numerous. Even just the welcome presence of blue skies and the warmth of the sun make a leisurely existence more than comfortable. Those contemplative moments then are a reminder of goals and fears. I am reminded that I need to keep my goals. I am reminded that I need to eradicate my often irrational fears. Progress becomes not just a priority but a necessity for a clear and sound mind, an active soul.

Brand Spanking New! --> I Love My Wife #7

Kristen has a boyfriend who she loved within a week. They met, they had sex, they made love, they were in love. When I met him at her birthday party, that one week later, they clung to each other with arms grasped firmly around the other’s waist and lips frequently caressing. This happened two years ago and now they still live, conjoined in bliss, or at least content with their situation. They work and grow tired but by the end of the day they find time to be themselves, to be enveloped by the other.

And Jenny lives in England, a place I’ve never been. When she talked about her future at the bar with a beer or on top of Mikul’s roof with a mojito, she resigned her rhetoric to that of familiarity and complacency, sometimes even boredom. She often sighed and although I yearned to say so, I never mentioned the fact. My curiosity was never overwhelming enough to overcome the fact that we never had the sort of friendship in which personal details were communal fodder.

Colleen has a boyfriend that loves her so her friends never see her. It was never a deliberate thing on her part or a conscious thing on our part. The lack of communication allows for such a situation to persist. First love means never having to say you’re sorry. None of this is bad or particular. All of my girl friends are dedicated to coupledom in a way that I can never be, that ultimately makes me envious. You must dedicate a part of yourself to it. You must believe in the maturity of it. You must give up a part of yourself for it. And I am selfish.

Hafsa and Connor have begun their trajectory to their inevitable fame. They work hard and are rewarded for working hard. Their brilliance is slowly becoming a better-known secret. The world has begun to see what we see. Their only flaw is their friendship with us cultural, intellectual, and spiritual plebes. We add nothing to the equation of their future. We are one like a prime number. We are devoid of plus.

And then I think of myself because I am somewhat of a masochist. My source of income stops on Thursday. What happens then I don’t quite know. I’ll come home to Oak Park alone and lay on the couch and watch television. I’ll browse the internet and hear about interesting things but never do them. I’ll learn about cool people but never meet them. I’ll listen to music and never be able to play it like I want to play it. I’ll daydream and the dream will seem so real and so possible that I can taste it. I will become enveloped by it, at least temporarily, and everything will seem all right. And then a couple of days will go by, and I’ll forget, or get stressed out, or get sad, and all of that will go away.

When people say things such as, “You are mature for your age,” I feel quite depressed. I haven’t felt age appropriate for most of my life and I can’t remember a time when a statement like that has not been said. My frequent, persistent worrying and over thinking inevitably leaves me debilitated when it comes to exhibiting “normal” behavior for my age. Sometimes I just wish that I could have acted 16 when I was 16, and 18 when I was 18, and now, like a 21-year-old at the age of 21. What I’m saying is that I wish I could I act stupid, or silly, or recklessly without the constant consciousness concerning the results of my actions. I wish “the future” and everything it entails was not something I live to contemplate, agonize, and feel frustrated about. My personal contentment has become an afterthought.

D.H. Lawrence said, "Emotion tends to issue in action," and it is with action, with the slap of the hand on another's face that elicits the most understanding in the audience. The slap is precise and more telling than a verbal sparring.

Jeans and pants make me cognizant of my body. Without them, I am free to maneuver in the world lacking the sort of consciousness of the corporeal – my corporeal – that previously kept me immobile both emotionally and physically. In the summer, I feel freer, without the obligations of explanation. In the summer, I move outside of myself, with a clear and concise mind more connected to the world around me and not consumed by the flaws of the body.