InsaneJournal

And they say things don’t come in threes. Not surprisingly, Iason’s relationship with the questionably-aged Elisabeth (only 20, what the hell was he thinking?) has ended. What does come as a surprise, however, is the fact that Greg has joined us in the pool of the broken hearted. Gregory and Avery. Avery and Gregory. Avegory, as I read on some blog. My baby brother with his beautiful wife, only two months ago so damn happy. And then they lost the baby and all was fucked. I guess losing a child does that to people but it doesn’t make it any better. He loved her, still loves her, more than I’ve ever seen someone love another person. They were the new…Well, they were taking over for Jo and Me, the golden couple that was going to stay together until death did them part but now Avery’s in London and Gregory is falling to pieces in DC. I’ve offered to come down but both of us know it’s empty. We Miers boys are stronger by ourselves, better when we can plunge ourselves into work and ignore the outside world. He has a Congress to take over; I have bad guys to put away. Still, it makes you think, the way we’ve all crashed and burned within the same few months.

I finally moved out, kissed my wife goodbye and gave up the house. I loved that house. I loved her, but I guess it’s time to start getting over both. Now there’s a new challenge, the challenge of finding a place of my own. I considered Brooklyn, home of stickball and all that’s good with the world but the commute might just kill me and the borough is more suited to the family life of my past. Still, it isn’t completely ruled out if only because there is nothing in Manhattan calling my name. I’m tempted to just put my name down on a lease for some cramped studio in Hell’s Kitchen, to embrace my bachelorhood and revert to the days I should have had as a twenty something. Messy bed, messy kitchen, no room. For now, though, I’m putting off the choice and living out my office and an extended-stay hotel on 95th. They don’t call it extended-stay, of course. They call them “executive suites” or “furnished apartments”. No matter what they call them, they’ll still be the dumping ground for lonely men away from home for business or the divorced that haven’t yet found their feet. Even with the relative luxury and the regular hotel guests, there is an air of disillusionment. I both pity and envy those of the Marmara that haven’t a clue of its deeper purpose, the blonde housewife staying two floors down, with her two bubbling children taking a break from the Midwest, all wide-eyed and certain the city is so much more than it can ever be. I wonder if my own children and grandchildren ever were that naïve, or if raising them in the city has simply stolen that chance from them completely.

Mostly, though, I wonder if it isn’t time that I find people outside the office to socialize. With a divorce, you lose your circle of friends, everyone you thought you knew. Suddenly, there are no more invitations to Yankees games (though they all knew I was a Mets fan), no more offers of a beer during football Sunday. Perhaps that is the biggest casualty of all that, my social life. Perhaps, though, I don’t really need it. I suppose only time will tell.