I Got "We'd" On

After hooking up with not a hook up, I proved to myself—and now the two other people who read this blog—that I don’t learn from my mistakes. I made the same mistake later in the week. I found my way into the bedroom of a fashionable, self-made designer of men’s accessories with an Ivy League degree. Perhaps too busy to date or maybe just looking for something fun and easy, we haven’t been able to connect since then. Not that a hook up is certainly too busy to date, and I think we’re both embarrassed by the fact that we probably should have dated and not just rolled around naked. I suppose you need to check your conscience at the door when you’re just looking to hook up. Like a squirrel preparing for winter, I hide little acorns of conscience everywhere on myself, unable to unearth all of them at any given time. This is why I suck at hooking up; my heart lives in my penis.

Recovering from my poor decision to hook up, I went to brunch with my best friend, who brought his boyfriend. In my state of emotional wreckage, this proved itself somewhat of a disaster of an idea: I got “we’d” on, heavily and mercilessly.

I love my friend unconditionally, and he’s had many personal struggles that he has worked through since we’ve known each other. As a good friend, I should be happy for him, celebrate his successes, listen to him as he plans to improve his life. I do all of this well but find it hard to truly indulge in rejoicing in his flourishing relationship. Ultimately, I blame my own selfishness for simple smiles and abrupt endings to outings. I try not to react, but getting “we’d” on compromises my happiness.

Here’s a situation. Threatened with the possibility of moving, I spoke to my best friend and his boyfriend:

“I don’t think I can afford the apartment if my roommate moves out,” I said with a sigh.

“Well, where would you go?” my best friend asks.

“I’d like to stay in the neighborhood, but I’m not sure I can afford that either.”

“Oh, we love this area,” he announced as they plunged into a conversation about the apartment they are going to move into when they decide to move in together.

In theory, I am happy that they are moving onto the next phase of life together. In practice, I have a hard time with all the outward celebration of their togetherness. Walking past a real estate office, my best friend halts our progress from brunch, “We always stop to take a look at the apartments.”

Besides, “Oh, sure,” how else can I respond? I happily look over at the children playing in the park while they slip into the language of their relationship. I know better than to think that this is an intentional personal attack. They don’t couple-up and fantasize about how great their lives will be together to hurt me or remind me that I am not in a relationship. A couple, perhaps, can never truly understand that one never feels more single than when the tenderness of a loving couple performs their relationship. The frustration that grows from this does not sprout up proudly green and jealous. Instead, it festers slowly as the single person hates himself for his bitter singleness that prevents a complete enjoyment of his friend’s happiness.

To an extent, my best friend perpetuates the union of his self with the man in his life. All of a sudden, without warning or suspicion, my best friend’s individuality merges with his boyfriend’s. The forming of this plurality, the loss of first person singular in casual speech, becomes distressing: “we don’t like that restaurant,” “we would love to live here,” “I don’t know if we can go away this summer.” The endless string of “we’s” becomes emotionally exhausting as I silently fight an acrid battle with the cynical old man in a rocking chair on my shoulder—the idealistic teenage girl has thrown her heart-filled notebook and curled into the fetal position.

As I step back from the flagrant use of first person plural, I can smile proudly, knowing my best friend has found what I think will be a partner for life. I reflect back on my former relationships. Have I egregiously “we’d” on unsuspecting single friends? In high school, I became “the single one”—probably because of my unrecognized homosexuality. The stain soaked into my image permanently. Nights of being the third, fifth, and even seventh wheel etched a watchful eye in my mind, ever cautious as I made sure not to enter into social situations where I would find myself in the middle of coupled-up straight people again. At least being surrounded with straight people allows me to rest calmly with the fact that gay men have a different speed of development. I have no such protection when my gay friends merge into couplehood.

My best friend’s relationship seems to not be a hurdle but a marker of my own growth as a single man. I know that I am not losing my best friend to this new man, and just how he has transformed every other aspect of his life, this, too, is a step forward for him. My feelings are real and my singleness palpable, but singleness needs not be a stain on my psyche. Of course, I don’t mean to revel in it; few people skip down the street screaming singleness, but we don’t have to war with our coupled-up counterparts . . .