“Can we please go eat???”
After undergraduate student-club meetings, I pleaded until he drove me to T.G.I. Fridays, Red Robin, or Five Guys. I’d divulge my existential crisis of the week while we indulged in potstickers, mozzarella sticks, nachos, burgers, and fries. Some weeks I would angst about whether I was selected for another prestigious internship or not. He’d reply with, “You’ll be fine.” Other weeks I showed him my beautifully melancholy songs, to which he would respond, “Maybe this is why you’re depressed.”
He’d get a milkshake. I’d beg him to try my white wine or Bloody Mary or espresso martini and then laugh as he recoiled at the pungency of my drink every time. Only once did he sip a sugary, peach cocktail I ordered and respond with, “Oh, that’s nice!”
He would notice me eyeing a dessert at another table and silently reach for our booth's monitor. Minutes later a chocolate lava cake with hot fudge and vanilla ice cream would appear before us.
I always chose the burgers with layers of cheese, fried eggs, avocado, and peppered bacon. Decisions between chili poppers and wings were impossible when I was craving every flavor of fried. When the bill arrived, he would give me an amused smirk, “You chose the most expensive appetizer, entree, AND dessert. Not to mention you ordered FIVE appetizers.” Yet even if I asked for every single item on the menu, here or at a four dollar sign restaurant, he would smile as he pulled out his wallet.
Regarding my summer research programs, there were pretentious professors combing through thousands of other applications as I awaited my acceptance. In regards to my mood swings, there would be years of trauma and diagnoses for me to sift through before I truly understood the roots of my emotional turbulence. However, there was a practicality and correctness in his simplicity that I grew to both rely on and resent.
Our choices in beverages mirrored our preferences in life. My body desired the experience of novelty, whether through my intellect or my tastebuds. I examined every angle of every social issue, the same way I tried my potstickers with every condiment combination available to me. Boredom, curiosity, and restlessness would soon cause me to leave him in search of a twin flame. I knew there had to be a better match for me out there and I needed to figure out who it could be. He was content with his choice and faithful to his routine, as he was with me. Familiarity comforted him.
The ups and downs I felt were as vivid and genuine as they could be at the time. And yet, this was before my GI tract went on strike, failing to function without pain. Previous to when my stomach protested against the five cups of coffee I drank each day. Back when “cholesterol” was simply a word on nutrition labels, not flagged on annual lab results. Prior to my body’s decision to feed infection with any sugar I fed myself. During a time when there was no nightly medication to compete for metabolism with the alcohol in my bloodstream.
All of this occurred before my heartburn and heartbreak. My binge drinking. My insomnia. Before I paid my own rent or worried about health insurance or got too many points on my driver's license. This was a post-recession, pre-pandemic era. No layoffs or lockdowns.
In many ways, life was as simple as the chain restaurants we frequented. Any chaos from our day was smoothed over by our predictable patterns. The answers to my agonizing questions were perhaps not much deeper or more complex than his thoughts.
When the waitress came, I held up credit cards that his father would promptly pay off. One card had an image of Washington, D.C. and one was Disney-themed.
“Mickey Mouse or flowers??” I smiled gleefully.
“I missed having my wallet stolen right in front of me,” he reached for Mickey.
Years later, I would miss those late-night dinners. I would miss the resilience of my health, the safety net of being a student, and the security blanket of someone who paced life for me. Was I self-absorbed as a 20-year-old? Absolutely. Did I underappreciate his patience, generosity, and ability to anticipate my chocolate-y wants? Yes. Did I long to be in that relationship again? No. Was T.G.I. Friday’s truly so enchanting five years ago? Not at all.
Repetition holds a certain sweetness. Smile at someone once and it’s friendly. Smile at someone every morning and it’s familiar. Go somewhere at the end of the day and it's a visit. Go somewhere at the end of everyday and it's home.
I still end up with the most expensive dishes on menus. Now I eat lobster stuffed with scallops and caviar adorned with gold leaf at rooftops in Manhattan. My catered lunches are paid for by corporate America, but I miss the meals paid for by Mickey Mouse. I go home to a luxury apartment and find my fridge full of organic produce, but I spend the night craving a burger from Red Robin.
With Nostalgia,
BrainwaveBlog ❤️