The In-Between Times
In his book Seinlanguage, Jerry Seinfeld writes that the best times in life are the “in-between times.” It goes on to say, “You know, like those times when you get a job, but before you actually have to do it. Those are the best times.” I read this book when I was 14, and even then I loved this quote even though I had never held a job. But for some reason, these words always resonated with me and every time I found myself in an “in-between time,” I thought of Seinfeld’s words. I find myself currently smack in the middle of one right now and the words swirl in my head more than ever.
I actually remembered this Seinfeld quote two years ago as I found myself hating the job I was in and making like Cameron Frye in praying for disease each morning so I wouldn’t have to go to work. After persevering for eight months with the next company that would eventually hire me, I sat giddy as I accepted my new job offer and prepared to tell the old place to piss off, I’m outta here. I suddenly had 10 days of half-assed work at the old place filled with long lunches and early departures, and thanks to my new company being so unspeakably cool, an additional week and a half to chill and not do shit just like my last semester of grad school.
It was the happiest I found myself post-college up to that point. I had recently moved into a new apartment by myself, Lady E and I were finally living within 10 minutes of each other and I had a new job that I didn’t actually have to do yet. The promise of employment is one of the most comforting feelings any person can experience, and when that promise is coupled with the absence of a daily grind and a demanding boss, you’ve got a recipe for sublime happiness. Temporary elation, sure – I mean, you’ve got to get to that new job eventually – but sublime happiness nevertheless.
And in an odd way, having the end in sight makes the in-between times even sweeter. You know your jobless, free-as-a-bird status as a temporary-yet-glorious vagabond won’t last forever, so you make the most of it and cherish every moment of it. I slept in. I watched the good “Price Is Right” with Bob Barker every morning while eating my Cheerios. And I capped off each lazy day with a few beers and some friends each night. After a week and a half, I was damn ready to kick ass at my new job and that feeling was largely due to my in-between time.
That was almost two years ago. So why do I bring this up now? I’m surrounded by the unknown and awash in transition. And while it’s a bit different than the before-the-new-job contented respite, I still find myself one smiling bastard.
Many of you know, some of you don’t, that Lady E and I got engaged a bit over two months ago. For those of you yet to experience it, proposing to a woman is simultaneously one of the most exhilarating/terrifying moments of your entire life. You’re 99% sure she’s going to say yes, but the remaining 1% begins to resemble Godzilla while the 99% confidence shits its pants and flees your once confident brain like 99 screaming, petrified Japanese citizens. The feeling passes as soon as she says yes, and all of a sudden you’re in one of the few almost universally experienced, culturally prescribed in-between times: Engagement.
Engagement is hard to describe. You don’t feel any different, but suddenly everyone is asking you questions all the time. “When’s the big day?” “Have you planned a honeymoon?” “How many people are you having in your wedding party?” “Is it going to be a hosted bar?” You spend your days feeling like a guest on Larry King or like you’re attending a press junket hyping your new movie and answering the same questions over and over. It’s a bit wearing, but being the center of attention for a time is fun. And ultimately you just sort of grin and bear it because you know the end’s in sight.
As an added bonus, you and your woman have declared to each other the most beautiful love in the world: You want to spend the rest of your lives together. The assurance that brings and the joy you feel is only rivaled by the knowledge that you’re not actually married yet.
You have the rest of your lives to be married, but you only get to be engaged once. We’re roughly ten months out from our wedding, engaged the whole time. When those ten months are up, using America’s average life expectancy as a guide, we’re married to each other for the next 50 years or so. I spent the first 27 years of my life as a single man, and assuming everything goes to plan, I’ll spend the remaining 50 as a married one. I’ll only spend 11 months as an engaged man. It’s kind of like having that week and a half between jobs. You’re between phases and you metaphorically spend that time sleeping in and watching games shows where college kids inexplicably win grandfather clocks. Only instead of actually doing that you go to free cake tastings, talk about the booze you want to serve at a massive party, and pick out a bunch of shit for people to give you that you don’t have to pay for. It’s out of sight!
The world too sits on the precipice of change. Our new president has yet to take office while the extremely unpopular previous president spends his days doing whatever it is that lame ducks do. We have virtually no major investment banks left. The United States auto industry is (allegedly) on the verge of collapse. The Broncos search for a new coach for the first time in more than 10 years. What happens in the next few months with all of this (barring the Broncos new hire, of course – I’m pretty sure that will only matter in Denver unless Pat Bowlen hires Osama Bin Laden or Paris Hilton for the job) will almost certainly define us as a country for years and possibly decades to come. The country cannot go back to what it was, and does not know what it will be. If you don’t consider this prospect exciting, there is no denying that it’s at least compelling.
I’m slowly coming to the realization that change is a good thing. I’m probably as change-resistant as they come, but dwelling in an extended transitional period has caused me to reflect on the notion of change. I’ve realized that change is really nothing more than a synonym for growth disguised as distress. CJS regular keithage recently purchased a house. Every time I moved into a new house I always grew excited for how I would turn that blank canvas into “my place.” I know another CJS regular CassieB is pregnant, so is Deuce’s wife. If there is anything that defines being “in-between,” it’s got to be pregnancy. You’re not a parent yet, but you’re certainly not who you were before.
And it’s facing the unknown that can be abjectly terrifying. Despite hating not knowing what was ahead, I always associated Seinfeld’s words with positive experiences. You don’t know what your new job is going to be like, but at least you have one. The new rollercoaster sure seems fun, but what’ll it actually be like?
I loved the in-between times until last Tuesday.
It was on Tuesday morning that I found out our closest family friend, a man I had seen two days earlier on Christmas as I had for every holiday since I was 5, had killed himself on December 27. The memorial service wouldn’t be until four days later, and it was my first week back at work. I’ve never had anyone close to me die before – no grandparents, no friends, only pets – so I didn’t know how to feel.
I tried to stay at work, but upon attempting to lead a meeting on one of our new accounts, I broke down and absolutely fucking lost it in the conference room. After explaining the situation, my company mercifully sent me home, and so off I went living for the first time in a world without Marty crying my eyes out as I walked down the streets of downtown Denver. Walking in public while crying is a mixed blessing because while you feel incredibly conspicuous and almost embarrassed for how outwardly emotional you are, no bum in the world dares to ask a crying man for money.
Once I got home I was so exhausted from all the emotion, I fell asleep on the couch watching a Warren Miller movie because I didn’t know what the hell else to do. Lady E came home and promptly declared, “I’m gittin’ you drunk tonight” in that strange West Texas twang she uses when discussing booze. That certainly did the trick for that evening as I pounded Heinekens and Cape Cods (so help me God, I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to drink vodka cranberry, but I think it had something to do with drunkenly wanting to preserve my kidney health), but I still had three and a half days before I could grieve properly.
How is his wife? What about his kids? Do his grandkids even understand? What should I say to them? How should I feel about Marty now? Why do I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack every second of every day? My mind swirled with questions I didn’t have the answers to.
I went through points of extreme emotion where I’d start crying and not be able to stop for 20 minutes. Then I’d go through five hours where I couldn’t feel anything at all. Lady E assured me that everything I was going through was normal, but how could feeling like I suddenly didn’t have control over anything be normal?
I knew I could control one thing, though. So while I was in the process of saying goodbye to one friend, I got re-acquainted with another. Hello, cigarettes. When I was a full-fledged smoker, one thing I always found strange was that I couldn’t cry and smoke at the same time. The two activities were apparently mutually exclusive, so remembering this – and in the name of fighting off the seemingly endless desire to have a panic attack – I picked up a pack at a bar and lit back up. While not quite as good as I remember, it certainly did the trick and kept me from being a complete quivering mess all the time and gave my eyes a much needed reprieve from the salty barrage of tears coming at all hours of the day.
As far as “in-between times” go, the one between finding out about Marty’s death and being able to convalesce with friends and family felt like shit in comparison to the other ones. Dealing with death was even harder than I anticipated, and the uncertainty of what I’d say to Marty’s family, who over the years I came to consider my own family, gave me anxiety like I can’t remember.
But the truth is, even re-telling the story now, I can remember very little of the specifics from that week. There are elements that stand out from the rest, but they remain as snapshots empty of much of their context, dialogue, and understanding. I remember in broad strokes what we did on New Year’s Eve, but I couldn’t tell you the substance of one conversation from that night. One thing I do remember is a quote from Butters, the poor, downtrodden kid from “South Park.” The goth kids and their newest recruit Stan find him crying after getting rejected by a girl he had a crush on and invite him to join their sad little clique. Butters replies with the following:
“Yeah… And I’m sad! But at the same time I’m really happy that something can make me feel that sad… It’s like… It makes me feel alive, y’know? It makes me feel human. The only way I could feel this sad now, is if I felt somethin’ really good before, so I have to take the bad with the good. So I guess what I’m feelin’ is, like a beautiful sadness… I guess that sounds stupid… Besides, I’d rather be a crying little pussy than a faggy goth kid”.
While I was never invited to join some faggy group of goth dorks, I remembered what Butters said about sadness and it always made me remember the good times I had with Marty and I couldn’t help but smile. Once I managed to smile, I pursed my cigarette between my lips, looked up to the sky and heard Marty say two things he always loved to say when he was with us, “Keep smilin’, [Dagger]. I’m just up here tannin’ the fat.” And then I pictured Marty basking in the sun with his shirt off, beer in his hand, and the mischievous wry grin on his lips. I couldn’t help but feel at least a little bit better.
And for the four days it took me to get to feel even a little better, in a weird way I’d never felt more alive. I experienced emotions I suspected I might be incapable of. I was forced to pick up the pieces when everything seemed incapable of breaking down. I was reminded of the love I’m surrounded by.
I’m not completely over what happened, and part of me probably never will be. And while I’d give damn near anything to have Marty back in our lives, that doesn’t mean my experience wasn’t valuable in some way. And like it always seems to be, it was during one of those damn “in-between times.”
But I continue to transition into a new world as my grief-stricken “between time” draws to a close. I fear for the next holiday without Marty, but as I learned in facing this, I’ll ultimately pull through it. I also know that as soon as I get too comfortable again, it’ll either be time to for more smiles and light beers as life transitions happily, or it’ll be more excruciating personal growth and painful change for the better.
Whatever the case, Seinfeld was right. Whether it means sleeping late on a weekday job-free or learning that you mourn just like everyone else as you sob your fiance’s sweater wet, it’s true. The in-between times really are the best times. Even when you can’t stop fucking hurting and you start smoking again.
Here’s to a better 2009, everyone! Thanks for continuing to be a part of the Cru Jones Society.
08 Jan 2009 E Dagger