Then again, perhaps I'll live to 100. If that's the case, it was only the first third of my life that was reactive.
Although a very contemplative person, I feared open ends more than anything. Not knowing was life's greatest torture for me.
Some people hear "we'll talk about it when you get home" and they go on with their day. They drive and work and eat and shoot the shit with others while waiting for the talking that will occur after they're home.
That was a wait I could never survive.
I needed to talk about it now. And resolve it now. And be finished with it now.
Because no matter how awful the talk was, it was never as awful as the wait.
The wait is that time when you imagine things far worse than any reality. The wait is that time when you imagine things that aren't even supported by any possible interpretation of events or interactions.
The wait is when you anticipate the end of the world. Or the job. Or the relationship. Everything in your life - including your life itself - could possibly end during that wait.
I never did the wait.
I pushed.
"Just tell me what's wrong."
"We'll talk about it later." "I don't want to talk about it now." "It's not a ten second conversation." "I don't want to."
It didn't matter what the other person's response was.
I needed to hear it and resolve it and finish it. Now.
And life went quickly.
Life tends to go quickly when you're reactive because actions occur in rapid succession. Maybe not the best actions or the most logical or the most fun. But man...they definitely occur fast.
It didn't help that I possessed unhealthy amounts of competitiveness and pride. Not to mention a fierce commitment to protecting myself preemptively.
"Just tell me what's wrong."
"We'll talk about it later."
"No. Just tell me what it is now."
I needed to know. And then I needed to address it. And I needed for there to be closure. I needed closure even before closure was popular.
I was the Norton anti-virus of babes. And sisters. And daughters. And friends. I had to identify the virus and then wipe it out using every possible tool in my possession.
And I rarely left any sign of the virus behind.
Because when you're competitive, proud and committed to keeping your vulnerability safe from attack, you annihilate all bad forces.
The problem is, not all forces are bad. Not all people who challenge you are bad. And not all people who hurt you or scare you or frustrate you or make you sad are really truly bad. Some of those people are just people.
But I always thought everyone else knew what to do.
I figured they must since I definitely never knew what to do.
I never knew what I felt or what I wanted or what I needed. My self-protective stance precluded the luxury of experiencing such instincts.
And then, one day, I found out their secret: they didn't know much either.
Granted, somebody once in a while may have known.
Surely there were times when the person on the phone, across the table or in my bed actually knew what he or she was doing and saying and thinking.
But lots of the time, that person was just reacting. Or emoting. Or being.
And I was always insistent that they name what they were. And identify what their actions meant.
I was insistent that they know what was going on. Since I didn't.
I'm not sure when, but at some point, I realized that I actually might be more of the rule than the exception.
I'm not sure when that happened.
I choose to say I'm not sure when rather than to say the truth: which is that it may very well have been during Four Weddings and a Funeral.
Before you judge, let me state - for the record - that I am not a Hugh Grant fan.
It's not that I hate him. Actually, I don't recall seeing much of his work.
About a Boy was a let down, but only because I had read the book.
The rest of his movies always seemed to involve Sandra Bullock and, well...I just can't do Sandra Bullock.
And luckily, Four Weddings came prior to Hugh's car/prostitute gig. Whew. I was able to experience the film without juggling the ethical and anal issues.
In Four Weddings, Hugh didn't know what he wanted. Or perhaps it was just that he couldn't accept that which he did not want. Or did not crave.
He attended weddings on a fairly regular basis and yet had no overwhelming desire to have one himself. And he questioned the normalcy of his lack of desire relative to other peoples' strong desires.
Note that I'm not writing about Four Weddings because I relate to Hugh Grant's character.
Even though I do.
But that's not why I'm writing about it.
I'm writing about Four Weddings because of a line that Hugh Grant utters twice during the movie. Twice during the film, Hugh Grant asks Andi McDowell, everyone's crush, to wait.
To just wait.
He doesn't know what to do or why she should wait. He just wants time to stop moving. And he wants reactions to stop advancing. He wants to take a break from the action while he figures it out.
Ironically, we tell people to wait at all the insignificant times.
Wait in the car while I run back into the house to get what I forgot. Wait on the phone while I answer the other line and tell the other party to wait while I talk to you. Wait for me to fake enough prudish person moves before indicating your knowledge that I really clearly do plan to have sex with you.
Wait at all of the times when you'd have to wait anyway. Wait during all the times when nothing disastrous or icky or potentially counterproductive to our general goals can occur.
Wait when waiting's fairly innocuous.
But Hugh Grant was right.
He needed for Andi McDowell to stop. And to wait.
She was assuming things. And she was aborting feelings. And she was taking actions that frustrated their love and their future together.
But Andi McDowell didn't wait. She married a bloke three times her age and then had to divorce him when the marriage went south. or wherever marriages go in England.
For that matter, Hugh didn't wait either. He moved forward with a wedding to a horrible person named Duckface.
I don't want to ruin the movie for you if you haven't seen it. I'll just say that it was a movie. And in typical movie fashion, they created artificial drama and trauma and ruin. And then they cleaned it all up.
And it had to be cute.
And it was. Albeit artificial.
More recently, Jim Carrey asked Kate Winslet to wait. Twice.
She asked why and he said what Hugh Grant should have said. He said "I don't know, just wait."
I won't tell you whether she waited.
And I certainly won't tell you what toll her waiting or not waiting took on Jim Carrey. If I had to sit through those two hours of emotional torture and psychological poetry, so do you. I'm still crying about that damn story.
But I've been asking people to wait.
Well, I've been asking for more time in the more easily accepted, traditional ways.
I tell them I'll think about it. I tell them I'll play with it.
And if I'm feeling really adorable or any bit contrary, I tell them I'll marinate on it. A la Jessica Stein.
And it's going okay. Less moving forward into accidental areas of emotional reaction. Less getting stuck in corners I never wanted to be in.
I'm working my way up to 'wait'...
After that, I'll figure out how to request a Do Over.