Somewhat inspired by the recent resurgence of the Cranberries in my life, this title feels fitting. Not exactly an Ode to my Family but a lyrical and enthusiastic reflection on some senseless behaviour that I fear may have damaged a relationship at the core of my young New York family.
I can’t even remember the last time I had a ‘fight’ with a friend. The last real soul shattering encounter probably took place a few years ago with my flesh and blood sister. It left us both feeling physically sick to our stomachs. But when you’ve known someone your whole life and you love each other to death there’s no doubt you will figure it out and make it better.
In present encounter, my friend is new. She doesn’t know me like my sister does. I’ve behaved inconsistently, stupidly, selfishly, childishly even. How can she possibly know that this isn’t really who I am? Or even if she takes a leap of faith, will she secretly be waiting for me to f*ck up again?
So why did I f*ck up in the first place? This is what I’ve spent the last few days trying to figure out. You have to understand mistakes to avoid repeating them. Upon reflection, I’ve identified a few recurring themes:
- I don’t like conflict and so don’t always put myself first when I should
- When something is on my mind I feel compelled to tell the people concerned
- I look for validation from men and as a result can’t always trust my behaviour around them
Seeing this written down, the fatality of the combo practically jumps off the page at me. I’m surprised it hasn’t resulted in more recent disasters.
Self diagnosis complete, how to remedy this undesirable behavior? It seems evident:
- Practice shamelessly going after what I want
- Keep my thoughts to myself at all costs
- Break all communication with men, rely on them for nothing
The third objective will be easier if I get my friend back of course. So I’m going to give her some time to be angry and disappointed then hope that she starts missing me, the same way that I’ve missed her this week. Specifically:
At the gym; when I walk past Pizza numero. 28; when summer-time drinking at the Frying Pan is mentioned, at the Cranberries concert; EVERY time I see the stupid man-catalyst for this fiasco.
The accepted thing to do in relationships when something goes wrong is to send flowers. My instinctive reaction in this scenario was thus naturally to skip to the girl equivalent and try to get a fashion accessory delivered to my friend’s hotel in time for the wedding she’ll be attending with fabulously dressed French people.
I was ready to click checkout on this hot number:
Once again, my intentions were good. Fail upon execution. But I’ll get there or at least I’ll try. Let this stand as a stake in the ground on the road leading far far away from stupidity and on to the promised land of self-awareness.