Thursday, August 22, 2013

There is an art to saying goodbyes, and no matter how much I try to change my stripes and revel in sociability, the ritual of parting ways continues to elude me. I suppose I should qualify this by saying the optimal ritual eludes me. I know tradition calls for a few standbys: conversations, food, the sudden savoring of routine, and I appreciate these things.

I get why they exist. They are the well-worn paths we travel to let go. There’s always a meal, a hug, a handshake. I will even suffer the surprise shindig, provided I’m able to defuse the “surprise” part with advanced intel. My spies are everywhere, as you know. The exhortation to keep in touch, typically near the end, is what gets me. I know it’s just something people say, but for some reason it feels disingenuous when I agree to it. I remember going through the exact motions, less than a year ago, with a buddy who was leaving work. “I’m sure we’ll have lunch,” he said, or something to that effect, and even as I was nodding, I knew full well the real trajectory: a few IMs, possibly an e-mail, the fabled lunch meeting never to materialize, and then the complete erosion of contact.

Grim, I know. Much of this could be ameliorated by the tome of flesh, I suppose, which ain’t happening. When Cheshire asked about keeping in touch, a few days ago, I delivered what I thought was a genuine answer: “I’ll try my best.” That didn’t fly, so I offered a “Call or e-mail, whenever you need me,” upon which she administered the saddest puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen. Indeed, I felt a slight twinge where my heart used to be, which I gather was either arterial hardening–or a call to be a better correspondent.