this time things will be different

When I was growing up, my parents used to have huge parties. Stacked crates of bottles of Pop Shoppe Pop in every flavor the brand carried looked like a rainbow rising out of the wet bar. Strange adult drinks that included eggs and bourbon heated in the 40-gallon silver urn and delectable dishes strewn around the dining room captivated me, as did the white tablecloths, pretty china and harried preparations for the party.

And all through the house, people readied themselves for a night of fun, while I excitedly wandered around, inspecting the goings-on. I stayed up well past my bedtime, relishing the adult conversation, admiring the long, filmy gowns and elaborate hair-dos of family friends until someone finally caught sight of me, round eyes burning, stuffing myself with cheese-filled dates and commanded me to my canopy bed. A considerable letdown.

As I got older, my sense of raw anticipation about the new, the unknown, never wavered. If anything, I got even more wound up when it came time for the keggers and the homecoming parties of my teen years. Any excuse to get dressed up in my new Guess jeans or in a fancy formal gown was momentous, and evolved out of long days of surprisingly extensive planning and highly detailed organization.

Giggling girls crowded my bedroom phone line with questions about what I was wearing, could I lend them this, and did I think they should wear that, what time would I arrive at the party? And oftentimes we’d gather at my house before we went out, I think just to draw out the getting ready time… Envisioning ourselves dancing, drinking clouds of champagne and falling for some as yet unnamed, no-faced suitor.

The anticipation, it always seemed to me, was the best part of any event.

And as an adult, I still approach any new adventure with my usual wide-eyed optimism. Excitement builds, in tandem with anxiety, as I worry whether everything will go off correctly. Gripping the drink that helps assuage my worries, I’ve had (mainly fleeting) thoughts that I should both drink less and apologize less for scheduling difficulties and my own insecurities that everything won’t be perfect.

It’s the same thing with relationships.

I want to keep a clear head, and not be naïve about whom I trust and who I allow to get close to me. Understand that I need to take the time to really learn things about people before I let them in. But mostly, I find myself swept up in the newness of it all, carried along by sensation and by my own, foolish fantasies about how things will be.

And just like a party, the anticipation and excitement that a new relationship brings often dwindles in the face of reality.

While our fantasy lives often far outweigh our real lives, we still always have that hope, don’t we? That everything will be perfect. That somehow, things are moving of their own volition into something bigger than two people, and that it’s an inevitability that everything will turn out just right.

Confronted with the awful truth, that you are, after all, ordinary, and that the goings-on around you are just ordinary, or second-best to someone else, makes me feel like I’ve fallen flat. Like I didn’t do everything that I could have done. I could have made better plans. Could have dressed differently, or worn someone else’s brittle, sparkling personality that would have made me seem more interesting. Second-guessing myself. It comes with the territory.

It’s hard to let people in, even harder to let them go. But sometimes, you have to face reality. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. But still, I love that anticipation. The idea that someday, something good will come of all of this.

At least that’s what I hope.

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