Let’s Not Crash and Burn

There I was with a decision to make. I had a 9-hour drive ahead of me the next day and I was in Walmart searching for sunglasses. Nothing fit right. Some made it look like I was wearing goggles, some made me look bug-eyed. And then there they were. Five bucks and they fit. They were aviator sunglasses. As soon as I put them on, I felt it. I felt like a douchebag.

I felt douchebag running through my veins the moment I set the glasses on my nose. It was like a cyclops visor of douche. I took them off after looking at myself in the mirror. I was fine again, a normal guy. Back on. Douchebag. I repeated this a few more times, the anthropologist in me not being okay with only one test for validity. But alas, every time, douchebag.

I bought the sunglasses regardless. I needed them and they were cheap and deep down in me, part of me was okay with being seen as a douchebag. People don’t tend to like me at the very beginning anyway. My roommate of three years, when we first met, hated me, and I him. Then we got talking. We peeled back the layers and got to know each other. I bank on that getting-to-know-you-thing. Anyway.

On the drive home, 9 hours by myself and some music, I had plenty of time to think. I thought about the fact that the drive would be most likely the last I would make from NC to NJ. I thought about how I said goodbye until who knows when to all of my friends, the girl I like, teachers, and numerous other people I will never, ever speak to again. I avoided sad songs on my iPod, it wouldn’t help. Then my brain switched to thinking ahead. Sort of, at least. I thought about a friend of mine who, up until this past December, was my best friend. From hereon, he will be referred to as M.  

I have known M since he was 1, our sisters grew up together. He has only sisters, four of them, and I had my one, so we bonded over the many years our moms spent gossiping and drinking tea in our kitchens. We did everything together. Birthday parties, trips down the shore, all-night video game adventures, you name it. I taught him what he needed to know about everything—life, girls, whatever. Mostly girls, but that is neither here nor there. Then M went to college, two years after me. While I was away though, and he was still in high school, he began hanging more and more with a specific group of people. Guys that made fart, dick and pussy jokes constantly. Guys who called each other gay constantly. Guys who probably beat off with their own tears constantly (I’m not saying I’m above any of that, but when that is the only thing that goes on during a group hang out, it gets a little boring after a while). He also began wearing aviators.  Big, shiny black bug eyes encircles by silver-painted metal.

Then, when he got to college, he joined the crew team. And we, as friends, began to separate. We didn’t hang out as often when I was home, despite my persistent attempts. Calls and texts went unanswered.  In picture updates on facebook, I would see those aviators, hiding his eyes and the residual baby fat in his still slightly pudgy face. Eventually, it got to the point that I stopped trying. He wouldn’t return a call, fine. Not into sending a facebook message? Okay, its cool.   Anyway.

Then, as I was passing through Maryland, checking out my glasses in the rearview, it hit me. It was the glasses. The aviators. They made people douchebags. It had to be. As I sat in my car, I could feel it pulsing under my skin. I wanted to pop a collar. I wanted to use a girl and not call her. I wanted to flip another car off. 

I took the shades off. I wanted to turn up the Journey and get everyone on 95 to sing along. I wanted to text a girl to tell her I missed her.

Back on. I wanted to punch a baby giraffe. I wanted to hit a hot pretzel out of a girl’s hand and kick it into a pond.

Did this happen to M, too? Did he wear those shades and decide to forgo trying to be friends with someone who knows more about his formative years than anyone but his family? Does he decide to ignore the fact that I could very easily bring about picutres and information that would make him turn as red as he did as a kid in the sun–cherry bright after just a few hours? I guess so.

Moral:  I don’t have a transition, so instead take this little piece of advice. If you want to be a douchebag, wear aviators. Or, if you don’t want to be one, just try it out. Next time your in target, slip a pair on for a moment. Feel the inner douche rising to the surface. Just please suppress the need you will feel to trip an old man with a cane. That just wouldn’t be nice, no matter how funny it may be.