When Falling in Love Was Easy

Maybe it’s just me.  But I doubt it.

Nothing seems easier or feels more wonderful than falling in love when you are young. Those are magic years, from the mid-teens to the mid-20s when hormones are raging, the feelings are new and exciting, and you haven’t yet had your heart torn out, stomped on, burned to a crisp, and then tossed into a dirty dumpster – at least not more than once.

During that time, there are no fears, no worries, and everything is about wonderful feelings and endless possibilities. We are blissfully naive and without a cynical bone in our bodies, and it feels great.

We can trust without reservation. And even if that trust is broken and the object of our affection leaves, we still have the capacity to cue up some more absolute trust for the next person. Sure, we remember the hurt, but the nature of our minds and bodies in those years is such that we can pretty easily put it aside for the next warm smile, fetching body or enthralling words.

Love is the Drug

The sex in those years is mind-blowing, and that has a lot to do with why we can just keep charging forward. Common descriptions like fireworks, explosions or “out of this world” simply do not do justice to the way we can completely lose ourselves in the fullness of the physical and emotional gratification we get. And, like a drug, we can’t get enough, and almost nothing can stop us.

But it’s not just the sex (for most people). It’s also about the pure feeling of connection with that other person and the anticipation of a beautiful future together. It’s the mind picture of building something important, something lasting, even though at that age we still have a hard time really focusing on the next day, let alone the rest of our lives. But the strong emotions (and that unabated trust) give us a sublime sense of security that in this person we have someone who will stand by us forever.

For some, there might be a little worry about rejection that can make them hesitant to “make a move,” but for most of us in those years that fear doesn’t factor into our thinking… or perhaps I should say, our actions (we don’t think much in those years). If we meet some rejection, we can more easily shrug it off. At that age, the sea truly is filled with beautiful, wondrous fish. If one doesn’t take your bait, you don’t have to wait long for an even better one to come along.

Yes, falling in love at that age is mostly carefree and easy. But then, it seems, something happens. We start to develop something awful: fear.

Things Start to Change

As we move through our later 20s, into our 30s, and progress toward our middle years, the brightness of the fire begins to fade. It doesn’t go out altogether, of course, and the changes happen later for some than for others… but it happens. And that brightness starts to be replaced, to one extent or another, by a cold, dark cloak of fear.

The hormones don’t rush at hyper-speed quite like they did before. And in many ways, that’s a good thing. But without that hormone blitzkrieg to ward off the bad stuff and keep us coming back for more, our realization of the fact that bad stuff exists begins to take root and gives us pause to think a bit more before we jump.

After a few more disappointments or all-out massacres of the heart, our ability to trust so easily diminishes and cynicism becomes more prevalent. We go from “anything is possible,” in the positive sense, to “anything is possible,” in the sense of what other people are capable of doing to us.

The Lucky Ones

Now, for many people this doesn’t really matter. They found their “right ones” during those “wonder years,” married, started families, and for the rest of their lives they are no longer concerned with dating, new relationships and all that stuff. That is, they’re not supposed to be concerned with it.

And I suppose that’s how nature intends for it to work. During the feverish years, we fearlessly tread the tumultuous waters of dating life until we couple up with someone. Then we turn our attention to working, building families, raising children, buying homes and going on vacations. The hormones and naiveté of the first stage are intended to help us find mates, and then it’s all supposed to calm down so that we stop that crazy searching and experiencing, and do the rest of the life stuff with a partner.

For the Rest – Too Many Questions

But it doesn’t work out this way for everyone. In fact, given divorce rates and such, it seems that a majority of people go through the shock of seeing their idyllic “together forever” lives shattered. Then they find themselves “out there” again in the dating scene (and possibly again, and again). So there they are, trying to navigate the dating and relationship rapids once again, but now their boats are overladen with the baggage they’ve accumulated, and it becomes much harder to steer the right course toward paradise.

What was so easy and straightforward – even instinctual – in those early days is thrown into a confusing jumble, fraught with the doubt and fear that have taken over their hearts. They start to face questions they never considered in the carefree early years:

• “Is she really interested or just being nice?”
• “Does he really like me or just looking for sex?”
• “Why did she say that?”
• “Why hasn’t he called?”
• “What if I move too fast? Will she think I just want sex?”
• “What if I don’t move fast enough? Will she think I’m not interested?”
• “Why hasn’t he made any moves yet? He hasn’t even tried to hold my hand!”
• “Why did she move away when I got close? I thought she was into me?”
• “He seems so nice, but they always seem nice at first; will he become a jerk later?”
• “I’m divorced – they will think I am “damaged goods!”
• “I’ve never been married – they will think I’m a loser!”
• “What if he is actually married?”
• “OMG… I think she might be married!”
• "What if he doesn't like the way I kiss?"
• “What if we aren’t compatible in bed?”
• “What if we’re compatible in bed but not much else?”
• “Maybe I’m too old.”
• “Maybe she (or he) is too old.”
• “I’ve been living alone for years; what if I can’t adapt to living with another person again?”
• “How can I find someone who will accept my kids?”
• “My looks have faded – how could anyone ever be really interested in me again?”
• “I have to work so much – how can I find time to start or build a relationship?”
• “All the good ones are already married or in relationships, and the ones who aren’t are losers – how can I ever find someone good?”
• “I’m not married or in a relationship – does this make ME one of the losers?”

Not everyone tortures themselves with so many questions, of course. Some people may find themselves asking only a few of these questions but not the others. Some people might still have supreme self-confidence – or been lucky enough to have not had their hearts torn out, stomped on, burned to a crisp, and then tossed into a dirty dumpster (at least not more than once) – and rarely entertain any such questions.

Maybe one of the biggest hurdles has to do with trust. Trust comes easily in those early years, but after enough violations, it becomes harder to put your trust in anyone. And after each successive time that you trust and lose, it is that much harder to trust the next person. He or she may be truly wonderful and have done nothing to cause you to be skeptical, but you start to think about how others seemed that way at first too. So you hold on to your trust like a dog guards a bone, waiting for some “sure sign” that it is safe to give it up.  

Like a mountain snowstorm, life can drop deeper and deeper layers of icy cold powder on you. But whether you bury yourself under all the doubt or just get lost in the whiteout from time to time, the point is that it is NEVER as easy later in life as it was in those magical early years.

But it’s Not the End

The fact that it is more difficult does not mean that it is impossible to find a wonderful person and build that “together (for the rest of) forever” life. It IS possible, and maybe even better. I think the fact that we get more self-protective after the hard knocks can be a good thing. If you can get past the fear, you can use it to make better decisions and find someone who will NOT add another notch on your failure stick… someone who will make all the previous heartache worth it.

It’s just that the process is a little harder, so maybe you have to do a little more. We tend to get into a protective comfort zone, and if you really want that relationship paradise, you have to have the courage and make the effort to step out of your comfort zone (but in a wiser way).

You have to take some chances and not be deterred if the other person’s fears result in an initial reaction that’s not what you had hoped for.  One of the biggest fears is to broach that question: “Are we just friends or is there something more at work here?” Often both people have the same silent question and let the fear of learning the answer keep them in the friends mode, even when perhaps they both would like to jump out of that mode.

The thing in this case is that you have to really KNOW what you want. Do you KNOW that you want to just keep this person as “just a friend”? Or do you KNOW that you like this person enough (in a “more than just friends" way) to at least try to make it more. If you don’t know for sure what you want, try to figure it out, because the other person might be thinking seriously about it and looking for a sign.

Communication is the key to everything. Our fears make us very unclear, and we send out mixed messages; we don’t intend to do this, be we do it anyway. This communication glitch is a big part of what makes it all so hard.

In the early years, we are usually much more clear with our verbal and physical messages: we quickly include the other person into virtually all aspects of our lives, we touch and kiss and move into sex quicker and without much hesitation, and we say “I love you” pretty easily, even though we don’t really understand the deeper meaning of the word and may be just reacting to the rush of emotions. But our intentions are usually pretty hard to misunderstand.

So it takes some extra effort to get past the worries and make it work. You have to know what you want, do your best to figure out if this person at least has the potential to be what you want, and then you have to have the courage to be clear about your feelings and desires, and not worry if the reaction isn’t what you hoped.

This doesn’t mean you have to proclaim your love before you even know if you like the same music styles or wallpaper designs. But it does mean that you should have the courage to be clear about whether you see this person as just a friend or possibly something more. And if it is your intention to try to build something more, make that clear. If you really only see the other person as a friend, even a very good friend, make that clear too.

Communicate! Don’t let the fear hold you back. Getting past the fear can be hard, but the results can be more than worth it.

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PS - If all else fails, get drunk together and see how quickly you can revert back to being fearless teenagers.

My Father

(This is a post I tried to write a year ago, but I never got it done. And even this year, I had hoped to post it before Fathers Day but missed the mark. It’s been a hard one to write, and I’ve changed it numerous times. But it will never be perfect, so I am finally just posting what I have.)

About a month ago they observed Fathers Day in the United States. It’s not as big a deal as Mothers Day (in May), and rightly so. But it still has significance, because fathers are important too. This day makes me think about a number of things: my own father and how I look back on him, my own performance as a father and how much I know I could have done better, friends and acquaintances who are fathers (good and otherwise), and my admiration and hope for the next generation of fathers in my family.

One thing that often gets me thinking about fathers is Facebook. Around Fathers Day, birthdays and anniversaries, my cousins back in the U.S. routinely post photos and memorials to their fathers, and I have always admired the adoration they have for their departed dads. (Technically, one of them is not my cousin, but a cousin to my cousins. But his dad was my godfather, our families were close, and I always thought of his dad as an uncle and him as a cousin.)

I share their feelings about their dads because they were men who I really looked up to as well. One of them had been my father’s close friend in their early years and, for that reason, became my godfather; his younger brother ended up marrying my mother’s baby sister, so he became my uncle. 

But sadly, I don’t feel similarly moved to remember my own father the way that my cousins are inspired to honor their dads.  I don’t have that same kind of adoration for the man. I feel bad about this because if he were alive and knew, he would be terribly hurt. And I would not want that.

Many Good Points

My father was not a bad man – far from it.  And in his way, he was a good father.  He worked hard to provide for his family, and he never failed. We didn’t want for anything important. We always had a safe, comfortable home, decent clothes, food on the table, etc. My sister and I didn’t have as much as some kids, but we had more than many others. We were comfortably in the middle class, and he was the reason why.

And my father was not a drinker or carouser. He would have a few beers occasionally in the summer, but that was about it. I don’t remember ever seeing him drunk or even close to it. He was steady and reliable. And he was mostly a selfless man who did without a lot of “toys” he might have liked to have had so that he could give his family what they needed.

He was generous to his children, perhaps to a fault. He always was ready and willing to help us financially when we hit tough times. When we needed him, he was always there.

Something Was Missing

I respect and admire all of those things about him. So why do I not feel so moved to memorialize him as my cousins feel about their dads?

I guess it’s because, despite all these good qualities, there was something missing.  My father was a closed-up soul and not someone who could offer deep thoughts and perspectives on life. His advice was limited to practical matters: how to work a table saw, how to wire a trailer, how to properly use a variety of tools, how to change a tire, spark plugs or the car’s oil.

Those were good things for a boy to learn from his father, to be sure.  But I needed more. I needed someone who could talk about life with me, who could give me advice about dealing with all kinds of people – especially women – someone with an inquisitive mind who could talk about science or music or art. 

I needed someone who could enthrall me with stories and help my imagination to soar, someone whose wisdom would form the bedrock for my own spiritual and intellectual growth. And I needed someone who could teach me how to hit a baseball, throw a good spiral, deke out a goalie, or win a fight when there was no other way. 

But that was not my father. I had to learn all those things on my own.

An Odd Egg

He was not a stupid man by any means, and I think he could have been much more than he was. But he was very limited in his outlook, and perhaps most of all in his self-confidence. It seems to me that he was a man who was never comfortable in his own skin. He covered it with a façade, a false bravado, but, deep down, I don’t think he ever really liked himself very much.

My father could swear up a storm when he was angry. One of my most enduring memories is of the occasional days when he would be running late for work, hurrying to get cleaned up and on his way, and yelling curse words at the highest decibel level possible. His swearing never included the F-word or anything like that; it was limited (there’s that word again) to a short rotation of several religion-related terms (taking the Lord’s name in vain, as it were) together with the phrase “son of a bitch.”  Those were mornings when I just wanted to hide under my bed covers until he was out the door.

My father's sense of fashion was like him: black and white. He always went to work in a white shirt with a narrow black tie, black pants and black engineer's boots. His idea of casual wear was a drab green or gray shirt with his black pants and black engineer boots – always the engineer's boots. In summer, he even wore his engineer's boots with swim trunks (not in the water, of course). I recall when my mother tried to get him to put some color into his wardrobe and wear more up-to-date ties. I thought it was going to kill him. 

He pretended to be an authoritarian, not only with my sister and me, but also with our cousins when they were in the care of my parents. It was something he could get away with when dealing with children who were not wise enough yet to question his orders. Looking back, I suspect he had a harder time doing that with adults, like on his job… but I really don’t know that side of his life at all.

And that segues into another issue: I knew almost nothing about his job, what he did there, or what it was like. I knew that he was a supervisor and then a middle manager at an electronics manufacturing firm – a branch of the Texas Instruments company. But that was all. I never saw where he worked, met only a few of his coworkers over all those years, and had no idea what his work life was like. He never talked about it; when he came home, he left the job behind.

My father was not an unkind man. As I mentioned earlier, he could be quite generous, especially with his family. But he was mostly aloof and insular. The only “stories” he told were of his army days in Panama, but I suspect that not all of these stories were real. He often mentioned about how he had his own Harley-Davidson motorcycle there and rode with some friends. That he rode a motorcycle, at least, there is proof in photographs. The rest of it… I don’t know. 

He had a scar on his shoulder that he said came from the .50-caliber gun of a fighter plane he was servicing. But a .50-caliber is a large and powerful gun, and its bullets are designed to destroy airplanes and other machines. It seems to me that such a slug would have damaged his shoulder more than was apparent. But I am not an expert, so perhaps it was true.

Most of all, my father was not an openly loving person.  Through all of my years growing up in that house, I never – not once – saw a display of affection between my parents. I never saw a warm embrace, never a kiss. My father simply found it difficult to make such displays; he was enormously reserved when it came to physical touch. I wrote once in an ironically humorous family history that, as they had two children, I was reasonably certain my parents had had sex at least twice.

I suspect that this kind of reserved nature and embargo on outward displays of affection ran contrary to my mother’s way, and she simply changed over time and adapted to the reality of her life. She was better at showing affection to her children, but even she became more reserved as we grew older.

What Shaped Him

I have often wondered why he was the way he was. What forces shaped and molded him? What made him so insular, so incapable of letting his feelings out?  I think it was because of his own father. I never knew my grandfather; he died shortly after I was born. His wife, my paternal grandmother, passed away before I was born, and there seemed to have been some bad feelings and controversy surrounding their relationship and her death. But my father rarely spoke about his parents, and he had no brothers or sisters, so it was all pretty much a mystery.

What little I learned about my father’s growing up and his relationship with his own parents came mostly from one of my aunts (my mother’s older sister).  My grandfather was a tough – and apparently mean – Irish cop in the small Massachusetts city where I was born. He had a fractured relationship with his own family, told a Catholic priest to “go to hell” and left the church, and made life difficult for both his wife and son. My impression is that my father grew up without having real relationships with grandparents, uncles, cousins, etc.

My father, it seems, wanted to please his demanding father, as any son would, but he couldn’t seem to measure up. So I guess he grew up feeling like something of a disappointment to his father. And it seems that it was from his own father that he acquired his emotional aloofness.

In a rare moment of openness, my father once told me that he was very proud of me, of my accomplishments and the man that I had become. I appreciated that, of course, and it meant a lot. Looking back, I suspect that it was something he wanted badly to hear from his own father but perhaps never did.

But all of this is mostly conjecture based on just a few facts. I could be way off base, but I don’t think so. His life growing up in that family seems to have been filled with a lot of hard feelings. My father was prepared to be the hardworking breadwinner for a family, but not to be a source of inspiration.

Not a Condemnation

After writing only a few positive paragraphs and so many that seem negative, it can certainly appear that this post is a condemnation of my father. But that’s not the case. I am simply trying to call it as I see it, and I’ve analyzed him a lot to try and understand where I picked up some of my own, similar tendencies, as well as to put into context how different from him I am.  I could have done much, much worse for a father. He was a good man.

It’s just a simple fact that I needed more. The person I am – the child I was and the adult I became – is very different from my father. I have some definite physical similarities to my father, in appearance and some facets of speech, but I think there is a lot more of my mother in me, in my nature, in who I really am on the inside.

But boys learn how to be men from their fathers. They adopt most of their fathers’ behaviors and ways of dealing with the world. When these behaviors and tendencies don’t work for them, they are left confused and wondering why.

Looking back on my life, I can see that in my early adult years, I carried a lot of my father’s tendencies with me. Most of them ran counter to who I really am, and it was a mystery to me why these ways of reacting to the world caused more difficulties than they solved. It took me a long time to figure it out.

Me as a Father

One result of all that confusion, I think, is that I wound up not being the kind of father to my own daughters that I wish I had been. I was not a complete failure, of course, just as my own father was far from being a failure. My daughters have both grown to be enormously intelligent, talented, kind and considerate young women, and my relationships with each of them is positive, open and with a lot of love.

But it seems to me that their achievements are more despite my influence than because of it. I know that for most of their growth years, I was not “there for them” nearly as much as I should have been. Divorce can make that happen.

Where my father was steady and content to work for years at a routine job and a routine life, I was not. Where he was willing to, as he put it, “be miserable in life and his marriage” for the sake of “responsibility,” I was not. Where my father was a stranger to any form of spirituality (and even seemed to fear it), I am not.

I don’t assert that this makes me better… not at all. Just different. My path in life has been far different than his: more spiritual, more inquisitive, more questioning, more open, more social, more emotional, more sexual. I am glad to be who I am. I could never have lived his life, and I’m quite sure he would not have been able to live mine.

But I do wish that living my life could have included being a better father in some of the ways that he was. That would have been nice. But it’s not how this life unfolded for me. Just as his life happened the way it needed to for him, so mine has followed the path that I need for the lessons I need to take from this earthly trip.