I have a friend, who is really into cars. It's so much more than just a passing avocation for him. His life is wrapped around them. It's his escape from the dry tedium of his day job, his world of spreadsheets, forecasts, and endless emails. I can always count on him to have something new that's he's either driving or fixing up. His tastes run to German sports coupes and every once in a while he's kind enough to let me drive one of his cars. He's a good person to know.
But I've noticed a change in my friend, lately. He doesn't seem to talk about his cars as much as he used to. That's okay, we've always talked about our other shared interests too. I razz him about the Jays, in a long running ritual for us. We endlessly debate the merits of craft beers. He helps me when I struggle with my phone, and I help him with his renovations. I asked him about his cars one day.
He said he hadn't driven or worked on one of them in weeks. I did notice he was driving his Toyota today, the truck that he used to haul his parts around in. The one that was always running and could be counted on to be reliable, no matter how much abuse he piled on to it.
I asked him what was the matter. He just shook his head, took a sip of his pale ale. They just weren't interesting him right now. He was tired of coming home to a dark house, with greasy parts soaking in a black pool of parts cleaner. He was tired of his needy 'children', who always seemed to be needing something, and in some cases, many things. Baby always needs new shoes, don't you know. He said that he was getting tired of spending more money to go a little faster, to go around corners a little quicker. I listened as he talked on and I soon realized why he felt this ennui.
The cars filled a hole in his life. But it was a bottomless hole that could never be filled by them, no matter how rare, how powerful, how exotic they were. They were great fun and a marvelous distraction, but there was one huge shortcoming to even the best of them. They could never love him back.
He and I are great friends, and have been for years. But I've never told him about this one particular hobby of mine. One that ranged to collecting experiences with the beautiful, the witty, the utterly charming. I enjoy those sorties greatly. But like him, I too had stepped back a little bit. He lived for the ripping-silk snarl of the exhaust, the shove in the small of his back as the cars launched themselves from a standing start. I long for a skilled tongue in my mouth, a gentle touch, smooth taut skin under my fingers as we pant, eyes closed. But if there's one thing our hobbies have in common, it's that once he steps out of the car, once I leave her bed to get dressed, our times are over. All we're left with is the memories. One last look back, and we're out the door. The garage door for him, the bedroom door for me.
At one time, too, I tried to fill a hole in my life with my hobby. And like he will come to discover, I found that that hole couldn't be filled that way. I came to learn that you can buy someone's attention, you can pay someone to do things with you and to you. But you can't buy someone's respect. You can't pay anyone to truly love you, and for that reason, those things are truly priceless. I've found that the emptiness was best filled with friends, with family. With new experiences. With travel. Because the life that is lived best is the one that is lived well.
I listened as he talked about his car fatigue. I changed the subject, or so he thought. The Vikings were going to be playing the Bears in Minneapolis. Why don't we take a road trip? We could pay too much for scalped tickets. We could eat some wonderful, awful greasy food. And afterwards, we could either celebrate or drown our sorrows at our favorite bar on Nicollet Mall.
His eyes lit up. He thought he could take the time off of work. We made plans. The road waits for us, sinuously, black, stretching off to the horizon. The road, like life, is best traveled when you're on it, fence posts whizzing past. It's such a cliche, but it's so true. Life is most enjoyed when it's seen as journey, not a destination.
But I've noticed a change in my friend, lately. He doesn't seem to talk about his cars as much as he used to. That's okay, we've always talked about our other shared interests too. I razz him about the Jays, in a long running ritual for us. We endlessly debate the merits of craft beers. He helps me when I struggle with my phone, and I help him with his renovations. I asked him about his cars one day.
He said he hadn't driven or worked on one of them in weeks. I did notice he was driving his Toyota today, the truck that he used to haul his parts around in. The one that was always running and could be counted on to be reliable, no matter how much abuse he piled on to it.
I asked him what was the matter. He just shook his head, took a sip of his pale ale. They just weren't interesting him right now. He was tired of coming home to a dark house, with greasy parts soaking in a black pool of parts cleaner. He was tired of his needy 'children', who always seemed to be needing something, and in some cases, many things. Baby always needs new shoes, don't you know. He said that he was getting tired of spending more money to go a little faster, to go around corners a little quicker. I listened as he talked on and I soon realized why he felt this ennui.
The cars filled a hole in his life. But it was a bottomless hole that could never be filled by them, no matter how rare, how powerful, how exotic they were. They were great fun and a marvelous distraction, but there was one huge shortcoming to even the best of them. They could never love him back.
He and I are great friends, and have been for years. But I've never told him about this one particular hobby of mine. One that ranged to collecting experiences with the beautiful, the witty, the utterly charming. I enjoy those sorties greatly. But like him, I too had stepped back a little bit. He lived for the ripping-silk snarl of the exhaust, the shove in the small of his back as the cars launched themselves from a standing start. I long for a skilled tongue in my mouth, a gentle touch, smooth taut skin under my fingers as we pant, eyes closed. But if there's one thing our hobbies have in common, it's that once he steps out of the car, once I leave her bed to get dressed, our times are over. All we're left with is the memories. One last look back, and we're out the door. The garage door for him, the bedroom door for me.
At one time, too, I tried to fill a hole in my life with my hobby. And like he will come to discover, I found that that hole couldn't be filled that way. I came to learn that you can buy someone's attention, you can pay someone to do things with you and to you. But you can't buy someone's respect. You can't pay anyone to truly love you, and for that reason, those things are truly priceless. I've found that the emptiness was best filled with friends, with family. With new experiences. With travel. Because the life that is lived best is the one that is lived well.
I listened as he talked about his car fatigue. I changed the subject, or so he thought. The Vikings were going to be playing the Bears in Minneapolis. Why don't we take a road trip? We could pay too much for scalped tickets. We could eat some wonderful, awful greasy food. And afterwards, we could either celebrate or drown our sorrows at our favorite bar on Nicollet Mall.
His eyes lit up. He thought he could take the time off of work. We made plans. The road waits for us, sinuously, black, stretching off to the horizon. The road, like life, is best traveled when you're on it, fence posts whizzing past. It's such a cliche, but it's so true. Life is most enjoyed when it's seen as journey, not a destination.
