My morning commute takes me past a bus stop where, several times lately, my former roommate has been waiting for a different bus.
So. He's around.
And one time a week or so ago when I saw him sitting in the shelter, I did a weenie move: I moved from nearest the front of the bus to a seat near the back. If he boarded my bus (which he didn't), I wanted to lessen the chance of him actually seeing me. Never mind that getting myself up and moving made me far more likely to be seen, but then, I'm not the most rational about this guy.
We lived in the same basement from January 2001 to August 2002, when I found my current place. I should have moved earlier than that, though my, um, inertial tendencies kept me there. I have several stories why we weren't a good match as floor mates, some of them both dramatic and, frankly, embarrassing, but this (less dramatic) one will stand for many:
Soon after I moved in there, I started volunteering with the Portland Center for the Peforming Arts
, leading tours through downtown's main theatre complex and ushering students to their seating areas at Oregon Children's Theatre shows in the 3,000-seat Keller Auditorium. I was loving it (and I need to get back into it), and one warm night in May of that year we volunteers had a highlight: a dinner at Montage
(famous for its leftovers being wrapped up in tin foil sculptures that look like animals). I headed there straight from work, walking across a bridge to the industrial inner east side. My fellow volunteers (maybe 20 of us) gathered. Laughing and scratching commenced, as did eating. I was impressed with the ease with which the servers broke our bigger bills into smaller ones so we could all pay exactly what we owed. Even with our other event that evening -- a tour of the Oregon Ballet Theatre
building -- getting cancelled (somehow it had been arranged without the OK of OBT's artistic director, and he said the building was too busy that night for a tour), it was still a great experience.
And I remember distinctly, later that bright almost-summer evening, after I bussed to my neighborhood and as I approached the house where we lived, thinking this: He's not going to understand why this was so neat. What I just did has nothing to do with TV, sports or sex. I might as well be speaking Swahili to him when we talk later
. He was in his room, watching TV with a like-minded guy, and we had a quick and uncomfortable chat. Then I went to my room.
We weren't a good match. I should have acted on that before I learned that some of the people I was living with (not just him) were not worthy of trust.
That is a tiny reason to have trust issues. A puny
reason, compared with some of the people I know via LJ and what they've lived through. And I need to get past that. Get over myself, as we say.
Which makes me so glad I can trust my family and my friends.