A Preferred Blur

I thought I saw my high school boyfriend on the flight back from Puerto Vallarta. I noticed a guy sitting near me in the airport who looked like him, plus 20 years (which is about right, as he and I started dating in late 1991). He even answered to the same first name, when I heard his travel companion calling out to him. I got a closer look in the line-up to board the plane, and ended up 90% certain that it was just a random guy who looked quite a bit like the paramour of my teen years.

But just for the sake of argument, let's suppose that it was him.

We used to be the fun-loving couple pictured at right. So how did he become a paunchy, balding nerd wearing prescription sunglasses indoors and telling pointless stories about how he doesn't know how to use out of office notifications in Outlook? (Yeah, I eavesdropped. Sue me).

And how did I become this bitter middle-aged loner, who can't be happy unless she's compulsively traveling the world?

Interestingly enough, on the same plane ride with Not-My-Ex-Boyfriend, I started reading A Preferred Blur by Henry Rollins, and remembered that there's at least one more human in the world with a similar dysfunction.

The central theme to A Preferred Blur, as with all Rollins' travel journals, is that he can't stand being at home. Or being with other people. He only feels good about life while alone and on the road. I can relate. He and I also have in common that we'll get a notion to go someplace, and then have to follow it through, becoming nearly obsessed with learning more about the location, and of course, going there. Upon arrival, the focus then becomes "getting through it," soaking up as much as possible, writing it all down, then getting on to the next thing. Being at home is really just down time between excursions.

So back to my original question: How did I become this woman? Rollins is very open about how his screwed-up youth and battles with depression have made him the way he is. I can't say that. Sure, I wasn't raised by Ozzie and Harriet*, but I made peace with anything fucked up about my childhood long before I ever got on a plane by myself.

Maybe it's innate, or a combination of nature and nurture. Maybe I don't really care. Maybe I can't articulate it as well as Henry, but the truth is that I'm happy in my own preferred blur. 

Next stop: London....


*Although I did watch a lot of Ozzie & Harriet while growing up. And to be fair, maybe their parenting shouldn't be put on a pedestal. They did, after all, force their young sons to grow up on television. Kind of messed up, no?