Come on Down! You're the Next Contestant...

This essay is six years old, but it's been on my mind lately, as the Muppets release their new movie. Right now, I'm thinking a lot about how and when I first fell in love with the Muppets.

So far this winter (where's wood to knock on?), I haven't been really sick yet. A friend has antibiotic resistant strep: there but for the grace of God go I.

One thing on my bucket list is a visit to Egypt. I've heard horror stories about infections from ancient mold in tombs shutting down people's lungs, and my kids frequently point out that West Nile virus is named after the Nile River. "You cannot go to Egypt!" they say. "You'll get sick!"

My husband is more pragmatic. "We're not going anywhere where we might be shot just for being American."

Mark my words, one day, I'm buying a plane ticket to Egypt.

Until then, I'll be glad that the Muppets are back in movie theaters.

***********************************

I have a cold again. Sometimes it feels as if I'm always sick. So many of my childhood memories involve lying on the couch in my pajamas, swaddled in a comforter. When you're looking at life through a fog of misery, it's hard to remember feeling any different. The memories that flood your brain are of fevers, headaches, sore throats, sleepless nights. I had a lot of those as a child.

Depending on what was wrong with me at the time, I'd have a tissue box and a wastebasket for my tissues, or I'd have a garbage bag lined trash can next to my head to throw up in. I might have a continually refilled glass of water, or my throat might hurt too much for me to swallow.

I came down with strep throat or tonsillitis at least once each winter. My stomach has always been fairly temperamental, and I'd get the stomach flu at the drop of a hat. Then there were all of the colds and flu that are inevitable. Still, it took me years to realize that I was sicklier than most people. If the schools would have had the attendance policy then that they had when my kids were attending, I would have failed several grades.

My dad retired when I was only a few months old. Both my parents were home with us until I was about five or six. Then, my mom took a part time office job, and worked from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. That left my dad in charge of me during the mornings when I was home sick.

Dad worried like crazy, but he wasn't very hands-on with children, especially sick ones. Even when I was very small, I could predict how the morning would go. After my mom left for work, my dad would pace around the living room for about fifteen minutes. Then, he'd say, "You OK?"

"Yeah, I'm OK," I would say.

"Well, I'm gonna go down to the Block S for a cup of coffee," he'd say. The Block S was a coffee shop type of business downtown. He'd meet up with his buddies there every morning, and they'd hang out, talk and drink coffee for about an hour or two. It was a very predictable routine.

"OK," I'd say, and off he'd go.

Even as a small child, I was not a boundary pusher. I wasn't going to use the time to play with matches, raid the wine or play with the guns. I'm a rule follower by nature. I never even left the couch unless I had to use the bathroom. No one ever worried about me being by myself while my dad was at the Block S, including me.

My oldest daughter always felt extraordinarily anxious if she was left alone in the house. She even felt anxious when she was babysitting her siblings. I never really understood that. She's home from college now, and if she gets home from work while the rest of us are out, it upsets her. When we came home recently, she ran from the other room to greet us crying, "People! People! Yay!" That's an improvement from her usual angry greeting of, "Where have you been? I've been here all by myself!"

As a child alone, I didn't worry about robbers breaking in, or kidnappers, or natural disasters, or fire, or anything else threatening my safety. I know now that such fears are very common. The only reason I could think of to worry was if I felt that my health would take a precipitous turn for the worse, and someone would have to be home to rush me to the doctor. Since such a thing had never happened and I felt sure it wouldn't, I felt completely comfortable being on my own.

My oldest child, one of my closest girlfriends, even my husband have always been the kind of people who equate being alone with being abandoned, unloved and in peril. I have always found it to be totally relaxing. It was the one time I knew I could relax completely. I didn't have to listen, talk, pay attention, interact or do anything else that took energy. I could just exhale and be.

I read and I watched TV – mostly game shows, never soaps. Since this was in the days before remotes, I often fell asleep with it on. That would be my day – watch, sleep, watch some more, sleep some more. I'd eat something if my stomach could take it; my mom made me lots of Jello. I'd spend all day or at least most of it lying on the couch. Then, at night, I'd go across the house and lie in bed. The thing I find most frustrating about being sick as an adult is that you have to keep up some level of functioning. You can't just sleep all day and all night. I'm sure I'd get better much faster now if I could sleep more.

I'm glad I didn't get hooked on soaps. Game shows may not be highbrow, but at least I was thinking.

I was never very good at "The Price is Right." Where do they get those prices from, anyway? I was very good at quiz shows, especially when the questions dealt with empirical data – what year did Napoleon suffer defeat at Waterloo, that sort of thing. "Family Feud" was a little iffier. Where exactly did they take their survey? Sometimes it seemed to be in a redneck bar after a few drinks, and sometimes in a corporate meeting room. Once I got a feel for what the "survey says," I could do OK.

After he got home from the Block S, my dad delighted in watching me play along with the quiz shows. I'd say my answer out loud, and even in the early elementary grades I often did better than the contestants. This pleased my dad immensely. "You should go on here!" he'd say. He thought I was some sort of amazing prodigy.

I thought it was because it had been too long since the adults went to school. They'd often be asking about things we had just discussed in school. I'd heard it weeks ago; the adults had heard it decades ago. My own kids often surprise me the same way. Just today, my seven year old saw a picture of a box kite. "Box kite! The Chinese invented those!" she informed me. How many adults would know that off the top of their heads?

Too, I didn't have a studio audience staring at me, bright lights in my face, and the pressure of millions of people watching. "I wouldn't do as well if I were there," I told my dad. He was sure I would. I disagreed, but usually silently, so he could be happy. One thing about my dad that you learned early – it didn't really pay to argue with him.

I loved reruns of the old Daniel Boone TV show. When I was about eleven, I watched the same actor, Fess Parker, play Davy Crockett in a movie aired while I was fighting strep throat again. That night I woke my mother in the middle of the night and informed her with wild eyes that, "The Indians want me to tell them where the gold is!"

She answered mildly, "Well, don't tell them, dear." Reassured, I rolled over and went back to sleep, saying, "OK." God bless my mom – she was always willing to sleep with us when we were sick, despite inconveniences like cold feet stuck under her for warmth, and feverish, delusional daughters waking her up to rant about "the gold." When I'd get thick, gluey phlegm closing off my throat, she'd rock me in the rocking chair in the dark. I didn't want conversation or entertainment; I just wanted comfort.

When I was eight years old, I discovered the Muppets. I came across Sesame Street on TV, and was delighted, even though I was years older than their intended audience. It was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with all things created by Jim Henson.

I was too old for the instruction on letter sounds and such, but I was captivated by the wittiness of the segments. Since I had a much older brother and sister and had listened to their music, when I heard a Muppet sing, "Letter B," I knew it was derived from a Beatles hit. It was charming and funny, and I felt very much "in" on a secret, since I was sure that preschoolers wouldn't know the original. Anyone who's watched any Sesame Street knows how often those moments crop up.

The musical segments were probably my favorites, but close behind came Kermit the Frog's roving reporter. As he'd show up with his news cap and microphone to report on fairy tales, something always went wrong, and he'd come unraveled. The poor hapless diner always ending up at a table served by Grover had my sympathy. And I felt for Big Bird back in the days when he was the only one of the gang to see Mr. Snuffleupagus.

The idealized neighborhood really appealed to me as well. I've always thought that reality should look something like that – everyone knew and liked everyone else (well, OK, everyone except Oscar), no one cared how old you were or what color or what species. Nobody cared about how much money you had, or what you wore or anything else superficial. And occasionally, everyone would break into a beautifully choreographed song and dance number. It was grand.

I kept watching Sesame Street whenever I was home sick, long after I left elementary school behind. I discovered I was not alone when I was a sophomore in high school. Karen, one of my best friends, was in the school choir, and let me in on one of their traditions. It was tradition in the choir for any sick member to watch Sesame Street and report back to the other members about what had happened that day. Heaven forbid that someone should forget – they'd face the collective wrath of teens denied.

When the Muppets branched out into The Muppet Show on TV and The Muppet Movie in theaters, I insisted on not only watching, but making sure my family and friends watched. Years later, it was a total delight to me to be able to introduce my kids to the Muppets.

When my kids are sick, I let them swaddle on the couch in front of the TV. Now, though, we have videos for them to watch if they don't like what's on our dozens of channels of satellite TV. It's a far cry from the remoteless days of channels 2, 4 and 8. Often they want to do something else, like sit surrounded by a stack of books or play on the computer. I insist on naps, too, since I believe firmly in the restorative power of sleep. Plus, for a little while, the discomfort goes away – how magical is that?

Not too long ago, I was home sick while the rest of the family went to church. I watched a wonderful biography of Milton Hershey, the chocolate king. Then I still had two hours to sleep before everyone else came home. It gave me a bit of that old comfort feeling of being able to check out of the real world for awhile and concentrate on existing horizontally – just me in my pjs, the couch and the TV. I'll bet I healed faster than I do otherwise. I'm not one to wish away my adulthood, pining for a childhood long gone, but boy, I do miss the ability to sleep through my sick days.

Death of a Friendship

I still feel that it's my fault that my high school endured nine years with a teaching assistant in the theater department who couldn't brace a flat and once set the lighting board on fire. It's not displaced guilt; it actually is my fault.

The longtime theater teacher left just before my freshman year. The school asked one of the English teachers to take the department in his wake, with the understanding that it would only be for a year. Then, they gave the job to a brand new teacher, barely out of college. She'd never even seen a live production, and was extremely intimidated. Still, during her first year with us I was a constant cheerleader, sure she'd read some books, loosen up, do something to make it all work. At the very least, she'd turn us loose and let us do it without her. Her first year, it worked that way. She opened and closed the doors and was the required adult presence. By my junior year, things had gone south in a dramatic and awful way.

Ariane and I had worked on a summer school production with an alumnus from our school. I'd reminded him that he'd known my sister, and we struck up a friendship. We'd invited him to see our shows, and he had. We, in turn, went to shows he was working on. He was in the final stages of earning his master's degree in theater. The lure of having an adult at our school who knew what they were doing was strong. We'd described to him some of the fiascos we faced.

Our teacher, coming across the stage direction "(beat)" was baffled. We explained to her that it was a short pause. Think of it like a beat in music, we said. You take a pause indicated by the way the dialogue is flowing – one beat, just like a beat of music. She refused to believe this explanation.

"If it meant 'pause,' it would say 'pause!' I've read scripts before. They always say, 'pause' when they want you to pause!" As if this wasn't ridiculous and alienating enough, she added, "I'm not stupid, you know." Her explanation? Everyone onstage was to simultaneously clap once. Really. It was just beyond painful to try to work with her.

She was intimidated by the kids who knew more about theater than she did; and really, that wasn't hard to do. Personal conflicts got out of hand and loomed so large they jeopardized the entire department. We were desperate for anything that would help.

"Please, K," we said to the grad student, "please come student teach at our school!" He'd been appalled by some of the stories he'd heard, and agreed with us wholeheartedly that something should be done. So, he showed up at our school. At first, I think, he was considered a community volunteer, like a parent who stuffs envelopes, but shortly he was approved by the administration to have all sorts of authority. I don't know if they ever paid him; it doesn't matter.

During the summer school production where we met, during the summer between my sophomore and junior years, K had puzzled me with some of his behavior. Theater people are, by and large, rather physically affectionate, but K seemed to constantly be in my personal space with no clear reason to be. He frequently said things like, "Want me to show you all the good make-out places in here?" He often walked with his arm around me. Every once in a while, he'd make some remark about "getting together" away from the theater. I'm fairly dense about these things, and could never quite figure out how serious he was. It was flattering and creepy at the same time. He seemed OK with the answer "no," so that was enough for me.

Occasionally I'd feel taken aback. When he came to see me play Abby and Ariane play Martha in "Arsenic and Old Lace," the first thing he said to me after the show, as he was hugging me, was, "You'd slap me if I told you what I can see through that dress." The dress in question was my Abby costume, a floor length, high necked number. I looked down self consciously.

"You can't really see through this, can you?"

"Oh, put it up under the lights and you'd be surprised," he said. I was more worried about the costume than I was in ferreting out his reason for bringing it up. If my costume, under which I wore a slip, was see through, surely someone would have noticed and told me, I decided. Nobody would want an elderly murderess character to be flashing her underwear, however demure. (And they were; I wore very plain, staid underthings.)

He'd come for our closing performance, and hung around afterward while we all cleaned and packed up. It's common knowledge that there will be some sort of party after closing night, so I figured that he might want to come to ours.

Instead, he invited me out. Just me. I turned him down, but he persisted.

"I'm going to the party at Joe's house. You're welcome to come, too. It's just a couple of blocks that way."

"Oh, come on. Half of them won't even be there." This was true. Three or four carloads of kids had already left, headed to Disneyland. That was the official cast party. My mother hadn't wanted to drive all night, even though the temperature was better, so she and I were flying down in the morning. Tony was picking us up at LAX.

"I really want to go to the party. It's our last show this year." I was nervous and talking too much, so I added, "Even though most of them are mad at me because I get to go to Disneyland tomorrow."

He pounced on that. "It'll be much more fun with me, especially since they're mad at you already."

We argued a bit back and forth as all the rest of the kids left for the party. Now K and I were the only ones in the parking lot, and the isolation was making me nervous. I wanted to be in my car, to put the car door between us. He was standing much closer than I thought was strictly necessary.

He finally, grudgingly accepted my answer, but insisted that he at least needed a good night kiss. The kiss was within acceptable bounds; he didn't push too hard. I was relieved as I watched him walk to his car. I was also worried that I'd protested too hard and hurt his feelings.

I didn't say much about it. I probably only told Ariane and Lana. Months later, I made a passing reference to Joe about having kissed K. He looked rather shocked but sensed, correctly, that I didn't want to discuss it further.

I undoubtedly should have been reluctant to have him to come to work at the school, but I wasn't. I was actually sure that it would mean he'd have to tone it all down; after all, it was a high school, he was 25 and about to be faculty and I was 17 and a student.

We were so glad he'd decided to come help us out. We had high hopes for the next year, glad that we finally had someone in authority who'd actually studied theater.

The high hopes were short lived. We found K to be picky and controlling, and we were astonished that the master's degree, which he'd now earned, hadn't given him the skills to do something simple like brace a flat. Flats are the wood and muslin constructions used to make walls onstage. He couldn't seem to get the edges lined up, or stop the wall from wobbling. The tops of the flats would tilt toward the audience, making the bottoms tilt in toward the backstage. Yet nobody was allowed to question him or redo the work; he pulled rank. We had to try and cover up the gaps with wheatpaste – the papier mache type substance used to cover the seams in the flats. We also learned not to walk too close to the walls while onstage or backstage. If we walked too close or even too fast, they swayed.

He had new procedures he wanted implemented, and we all grew increasingly tired of hearing his mantra, "Safety first!" It wasn't as if we were juggling saws. I resented hearing that our lofts, our storage, virtually everything about the theater, was a fire hazard. When I heard, after I'd graduated, that K had overloaded the lighting board and it had literally burst into flames, I was sure that the irony was lost on few of us. He was soon universally disliked, and it was a source of anxiety for me that I'd actually been the one to ask him to come.

He and the teacher were soon engaged. It was amazing how quickly he went from feeling she was incompetent and we needed rescued to feeling that we were all snotty ingrates who needed to buckle down. At least, I figured, if he's sleeping with the teacher he won't be bugging me about scoping out make-out spots.

And he wasn't. But he was still far too touchy feely. I wondered if I was reading too much into it; maybe, I thought, I'm misinterpreting things. Maybe it actually was a mistake when he brushed across my chest when picking things up.

I gave that idea up when I noticed how carefully choreographed any physical contact with me was. Almost all of it took place out of the line of sight of anyone else. Most of it was such that if I made a fuss, he could claim innocence. Back in the days before zero tolerance and Mary Kay Letorneau, even hugging or rubbing my back could have been argued to be innocent, and he didn't venture into clearly forbidden behavior. Mostly he rubbed my arm, back or neck, or gave me a hug. He still stood too close to me too frequently. I was sure, and I was sure he was sure, that if I complained I'd sound like a petulant toddler having to share the back seat with a sibling. "He's touching me! He's on my side!"

By this time, I was no longer speaking directly to the teacher, or she to me, unless it was absolutely unavoidable. There was no way I was going to tell her that her fiance couldn't keep his hands to himself. So strong was the animosity that even teachers who normally supported me were sure that I just had a blind spot or overreacted when I had a complaint about anything in the theater department. I regularly marched myself in and demanded an audience with the principal about things that bothered me – "What do you mean, the school can't afford a lousy gallon of paint? How are we supposed to paint the set?" – but I was sure he would think I was making it all up to get attention or to upset the teacher if I complained about K. More than twenty years later, I still think so.

I didn't even say too much to the other students, outside of my closest friends. Ariane heard most of the complaining. "I wish he would just keep his hands to himself!" "He's engaged, for crying out loud!" She knew, too, that it was useless to complain to the adults, so she commiserated with me. I didn't mention it to my parents. My dad would have become dangerous, and my mother hated conflict. The one time she'd been angry enough to go to the school and complain about a teacher's behavior, the principal had told her he could not interfere. She wasn't likely to make any more complaints.

That spring, I was asked to work tech on the school's first faculty play. I was almost always in charge of props and set decorating for our department. K was the technical director, and an English teacher, Mrs. B, was asked to co-direct with the theater teacher.

All was not well in paradise. I clashed often with Mrs. B. For one scene, an actor was supposed to carry on covered trays of food and set them on the table; immediately the scene ended and the set went dark. The trays were onstage for a total of ten seconds. Mrs. B was adamant that we cook an entire turkey dinner for the scene.

"We don't need anything on the trays! They can be perfectly empty!" I told her.

She sniffed, "The audience will be able to tell."

"No, they won't. Nobody ever opens the trays!" If they need to be weighted, I told her, you stack them with books. Then the actor carries them as if they're heavy, because they are.

Mrs. B did not like being contradicted, or having her direction questioned, by a student. She treated me to a loud, ringing lecture about "shortchanging the audience" by "trying to cut corners." By golly, we would cook a turkey dinner, we would put it on china, and we would put the whole thing onto the trays that never opened. We would do all of this despite the fact that we had no refrigeration backstage for the food. "They don't have to actually eat it," she rationalized when I pointed out the spoilage factor.

Meanwhile, K and I tangled about whose job it was to hang the paintings and such. It had always been my job, and more often than not influenced by flaws or holes in the flats that we needed to hide. K was sure that he was to make all the decisions about the dressings and props, and I should just put them where he dictated – after he approved them in the first place.

The teacher in charge and I assiduously avoided any contact with one another.

I realized that in the real world, the teachers were in charge and the students aren't, but that assumed that they actually, you know, taught. Years of experience had taught us that if you wanted it done right, you did it yourself. Things ran smoother when the inmates ran the asylum.

My blood pressure hovered in the danger range, I'm sure. I spent most of my time arguing or angry. It didn't help that the administration had vetoed a student production in favor of the faculty show. The students bickered amongst themselves, too. I found myself snapping at Joe and being snapped at by Ariane.

One day during construction, I was roughly center stage saying something to K, arguing about hanging artwork. For a moment, everyone else disappeared backstage, into the rafters or out into the halls. No one could see us. K cuddled up, put his arm around my waist and started rubbing my back. He snuggled close and crooned very quietly in my ear, "I know you've been upset…"

I had one of those moments of blinding clarity. This stops, my brain hissed, right now.

I bellowed at the top of my lungs, "DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T YOU EVER TOUCH ME AGAIN!" He leapt back, farther than he would have if I'd struck him, and stared at me. I was not even remotely finished.

"I'm assuming that you asked me to work on this show because I'm good at what I do. If you want me to leave and someone else to do it, tell me now. I'll be out of here. But if you want me to work on this show, then you and everyone else need to get out of my way and let me do my job!" Heads were popping around corners to stare at us. Several kids had emerged back onto the stage. We were now surrounded, and anyone who couldn't see me could hear me. I stood center stage, using an actor's voice trained to reach the back row of the theater without amplification, and I was on a roll.

I carried on for only a minute or two, pausing only to snap questions like, "Do you want me to work on this show or not?" K stared at me, clearly wishing the floor would open and swallow me. He answered me only in monosyllables. I barked one more instruction to leave me alone and never, ever touch me, and I was done. There. I'd put it out there, in front of everyone.

"I should have thought of this months ago!" I exulted to Ariane. K not only never touched me again, he started giving me a wide berth. He started avoiding eye contact. I no longer felt micromanaged. I don't know if it occurred to him that I was now 18, and unwanted advances were no longer criminal. I wondered how he could be worried about what I might say to his fiancee when we were not speaking. I was not, though, about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

And, while I still had to make the stupid turkey dinner, when it turned green and fuzzy we got to throw it out and weight the trays with books.

By the time I graduated K and I rarely spoke to one another, either. I went to work that summer at the huge hotel/casino where he worked. I'd forgotten that he worked there until I saw him in the employee lunch room one day. Then I remembered that he worked backstage at the huge, splashy show in the main showroom.

Back when we'd been friends, he'd told me that he'd wanted to perform in the show, but the producers didn't allow him to audition. At 5'7", he was an inch under the male height requirement. I'd gleefully ribbed him about being 5'8" myself.

After avoiding him the first time I saw him, I decided to be a bit more proactive and a lot more irritating. From then on, if I saw him in the employee hallways, I'd walk along side him and ooze saccharine sweetness. "Hi, K! How are you?" I no longer worried that I'd offend him. The sole purpose of this exercise was to revel in the fact that he clearly hated it. He avoided looking at me and answered in little more than grunts.

That same year, the year after our graduation, Ariane and I went back to the high school to see our friends perform, "Butterflies Are Free." K was the technical director again – sigh. He sat directly in front of us during the show and ignored us pointedly.

During the show, an actor went through an onstage door and shut it. Not slammed it dramatically, just shut it. The entire wall containing the door groaned and fell over. Not flat onto the ground, mind you, the way it would in a cheesy sitcom, but at a 45 degree angle, just hanging there. We could not contain ourselves and began to snicker and guffaw. Even in the dark, we could see K's ears turn red. We could almost see cartoon-style steam coming out of the top of his head. He got up and stormed out of the theater, which made us laugh even harder. We apologized to our friends afterward, in case our laughter had disturbed them, but their take was, "He deserved it."

I swore I'd send him and his fiancee a sympathy card and contraceptives for their wedding, but I didn't.

I moved away a year later and lost all track of K. Many years later I found out the he stayed at the school for nine years. I felt there was some sort of horrible penance I had to perform to make up for that. All I could think was, good heavens, this is all my fault. But then again, maybe I was being too hard on myself.

Go Ahead. Disagree With Me.

               One of my daughters tended to get into unnecessary, interminable arguments with her childhood best friend. Both bright, opinionated and stubborn, they loved each other but would occasionally butt heads with vigor. Once, my daughter came home from school furious, absolutely fuming, because they'd argued about vacations. "She won't admit that our vacation was better than hers!" my angry child informed me.

                "It's a good thing that she loved her vacation. Hers was best for her family, and ours was best for our family," I told her. My offspring did not agree; she practically snorted with derision.

                "But ours was so much better than hers! Hers was lame! She just won't admit it!"

                In spite of my repeated attempts to explain that everyone has different tastes, and that everyone should be happy with their own lives instead of being envious of others, they were both so angry that they didn't speak to each other for a couple of days, each convinced that their trip was best (and that the other girl was the stubborn one).

                Two or three years later, they got into an argument about religion. Again, my daughter came home from school fuming and angry. Both our families attended Christian churches, but, of course, there are differences in doctrine. The girls had been arguing about one of those differences.

                "A lot of churches believe that," I told her when she explained her friend's position.

                "But that's wrong!"

                "Yeah, but they think we're the ones who are wrong."

                We went around and around. I tried, repeatedly, to explain that everyone believes different things, that that's OK. Everyone needs to be polite and respectful to others whose opinions are different.

                "But I explained to her how it is, and she just kept repeating!"

                "And you kept repeating."

                "I was explaining! She wouldn't listen!"

                "And she was explaining what she believed. She listened and she understood you; she just didn't change her mind. After you each said it once, you need to stop. After once, it's not explaining any more. It's arguing. Arguing will not change people's minds. It will just make them angry. She's too good a friend to lose over a difference of opinion."

                I was frustrating my daughter almost as much as her friend was. Finally, she snapped at me, "So I'm just supposed to let people think things that are wrong?" She was apparently unprepared for my answer:

                "YES!"

                 I become more and more convinced that parents must have stopped telling their kids this at some point. So many people seem totally unclear on the fact that people have a moral, and in the U. S., a legal, right to think and say things that others find silly, superstitious, prejudiced, immoral, inaccurate and in any other way just plain wrong.

                I watch in amazement as people who consider themselves freethinking libertarians comment on something in the media by saying, "I can't even believe they're allowed to say that!" without a hint of irony.

                Quite often, the people who profess to be the most open minded will be the most scathing toward anyone who disagrees with them. Sometimes I'll have ludicrous conversations with people. They'll be going all existential, insisting things like, "There is no universal right or wrong. Everyone's path is just as valid as anyone else's," and I'll be unable to resist saying, "So, my path of choosing to follow a fairly strict, religious course is just as valid as your path." Almost invariably, that will be met by, "Well, no, because in your path, you tell other people that their course is wrong. That's not OK." So much for the concept that there is no wrong choice.

                "So you think I'm wrong."

                "Yes! And I think if you try to tell other people what to do, that's hurtful and dictatorial."

                "So it's wrong to tell people that what they're doing is wrong."

                "Yes! Exactly!"

                "So then, is it wrong of you to tell me that I'm doing things wrong? You just did. Are you being hurtful and dictatorial by telling me that I should do things differently?"

                "No! I'm trying to get you to see that everyone else should choose their own path!"

                "But you think the path I've chosen is wrong."

                "You didn't choose it! You're doing what someone else tells you to do!"

                At that point, I can either go with, "But if you tell me to do something, and I do it, that's OK," or "So an opinion is only valid if no one else agrees with it? No one ever introduced you to the things that you believe?" Either one will make the other person angry.

                Usually, it will boil down to something that looks like, "It's OK for me to do certain things because my opinion is right. It's wrong for you to do those same things because your opinion is wrong."

                So exhausting. So annoying. So erroneous.

                Frequently, it's best to just stop the discussion, because nothing productive will come of it.

                It's not just the biggies – religion, politics, child rearing – that get folks up in arms. I once had someone badger me for months because I like a particular chain restaurant's chili. ("They use the burgers that have cooked too long to sell! You're OK with paying to eat overcooked beef that they couldn't sell as burgers?" Answer: "YES. And it's a heck of a lot less wasteful than throwing it out!") When my daughter was getting married, I listened to more than one person criticize her choice to have matching attendants' dresses by saying, "Doesn't she know that matchy-matchy went out of style?" YES. Yes, she knew. She just didn't care, and it was HER wedding. Say that to certain people, and you'll get quite the reaction. Apparently, in some circles, it's more shocking to be willfully unfashionable than it is to disagree on whether or not there's a God.

                I always thought that people shared ideas so that they'd understand one another. I am never offended if you don't agree with me. I am offended if you question my intelligence or if you browbeat me with the intent to change my mind. So often, with people I know personally and people I read about or see on TV, I see shades of those two girls whose age was barely into double digits; people get increasingly angry if they can't change your mind. They've explained the error of your ways to you. If you persist in holding your opinion instead of changing to theirs, well, that's obviously a sign of low intelligence and almost criminal stubbornness. That attitude makes me angry. It always will.

                I notice, too, that many people attempt to avoid the unpleasantness of being adult enough to disagree peacefully by caving in. Faced with a loved one who is doing something that they always believed to be wrong, this type of person will think, "My loved one is intelligent, well intentioned and well informed. Therefore, if they disagree with me, I must be wrong." That's ridiculous. It is totally possible to be intelligent, well intentioned, well informed and wrong. Do you know anyone – ANYONE – with whom you haven't the slightest disagreement on ANY subject?

                We, collectively, seem to have lost the knowledge that you can truly, deeply care about someone, even love them, and consider them to be wrong at the same time.

                Sometimes, someone will attempt to show me the error of my ways by saying, ever so gently, "You know that most people disagree with you, right?" as though 1. I didn't know, and 2. I will now immediately conform to the majority simply because there are more of them. Really, folks? What's that about?

                It also ticks me off when people ask, "Aren't you aware that your opinion causes other people pain?" Yes. Yes, I am aware. Do you know what my first clue was? The fact that the opinions of other people often cause ME pain. I understand this to be a normal part of the human condition, not a reason for forced conformity.

                Think about it: according to many religious teachings, including those of my religion, certain behaviors will not necessarily cause pain in this life, but will cause eternal separation from loved ones in the next life. If you're in my life, I want you to continue to be there. It's an act of amazing restraint on my part that I don't burst into tears every time I see someone doing something that I believe to be wrong.  If I flung myself, sobbing, at the feet of every person who, say, drank alcohol in my presence, wailing, "I don't want to lose you!" people would think I was a loon, and the relationship wouldn't last long.

NOT flinging myself down sobbing doesn't mean that I agree with you. It means that certain aspects of your life are none of my business, so I stay out of them. I expect you to return the favor.

I see frequent complaints on Facebook that, "Someone un-friended me because of something I said!" Just as frequently, I see status posts that say, "If I ever offend you, or if you want to talk about (insert topic), please unfriend me!" While anyone in my life is certainly free to dump me at any time, and I will never try to keep someone in my life who doesn't want to be there, I find the idea that we can only be friends with people we agree with to be sad – and juvenile.

Someone tried to explain that to me once by saying, "I just can't be friends with someone who has opinions that I find to be morally wrong." I wonder if they thought about the fact that their opinions were offensive to me, and yet I didn't feel the need to jettison the relationship.

If they didn't, they should have.

Remembering the Loss of Darren

Sometimes, I'll have a dream about an old friend. I haven't seen him in years, and I'm always so happy to see him. As usual, he looks great. We'll be doing something, talking, and I'll start to wonder why he looks so much younger than I do. It doesn't usually dawn on me why until I wake up. He never got gray hair, or laugh lines, or middle aged spread. He's frozen in my memory, frozen in time, before he got sick. Before he died of AIDS.

He'd be glad that the automatic image my brain calls up is of him looking gorgeous.

It's rare that you end up being best friends with your first high school crush. I met Darren in the fall of 1980, when I was a freshman. He was only 3 months older than I was, but he was a sophomore. He had a part in the first play of the year, and I was an usher. He was very good, delightful to watch, and ridiculously good looking on top of being talented. I developed a raging crush on him.

We discovered that he lived right around the corner from me. I loved it when he'd pick me up and drive me to school in whatever sports car he owned at the moment; I felt incredibly cool and very special. I was jealous when he had girlfriends.

It took a while, but I discovered that I was happier being his friend than his girlfriend. Girlfriends came and went, and breaking up was never a Bruce and Demi affair in which they were best friends afterward. Sometimes, they barely spoke afterward. Darren and I, though, became closer over time. I was glad that I wouldn't be relegated to the scrap heap, so to speak, any time soon.

I'm glad that I remember his smile so vividly, because I don't think I have many photos of it. In most photos, especially school photos, he refused to smile. He didn't have an "I'm soooo cool" James Dean glower, either. In most of his school photos, he looks deeply depressed, like he's about to cry. "Smile, for crying out loud! What is that look?" I'd say. "I look stupid when I smile," he'd reply.

He had a wicked sense of humor, which was occasionally too bawdy for my taste. He was a talented artist, drawing detailed and accurate automobiles of all kinds. While I was an actor and a technician, Darren was an actor, period. He had no desire whatsoever to do any tech work. When we both joined the debate team, I did both debate and speech events, but Darren only did speech, events like Dramatic Interpretation.

We got to the point where we could usually tell what the other was thinking. We developed a signal, a hand-to-the-forehead-and-then-outward motion that meant, "Catch this thought." Most of the time, we could.

My parents didn't want any of their kids getting a driver's license before they were 18, but when I was 15 my dad bought a VW van that became, by default, the car I learned to drive in, and subsequently became "my" car. My mom made Darren his own key, at least 2 years before I had one, so he could drive me places in my car. We called it "bussing," since we were in a VW "micro bus," and we'd go together or in groups to the mall, to the movies or out to eat. He loved the magic and joke shop. Once, we bought Groucho Marx glasses and went to McDonald's wearing them. Another time, we drove the van backwards through the drive through, and ordered out of the sunroof.

I don't remember exactly when, or how or with whom, he started smoking pot. I was such a total straight arrow, uninterested in chemical escape and unable to imagine either rebellion or conformity as a means of bonding, that it caused me literally physical pain. I was devastated, every day. He knew I didn't approve, but I don't think the depth of my reaction was entirely clear or would have made any sense to him. (With certain people, I spent my time waiting for them to grow out of various behaviors, while they undoubtedly spent their time waiting for me to get with the program and act like a "normal" kid.)

"Look at my pupils," he'd say, or, "Smell my shirt," to point out to me during school hours what he'd been doing between classes. He'd giggle when I scolded him. He moved on to other assorted intoxicants, and was soon dealing.

He had a part time job at McDonald's, but made far more money selling drugs. He always figured that he hid this fact rather well, but come on, what 16 and 17 year old kid buys a sports car with cash? "I could have saved that from my job," he said when I pointed this out. Not in this universe, I thought, but his parents seemed oblivious, so who knows?

My mom always knew who was doing what among my friends; either I'd tell her, or they would. Darren didn't drive me or my car while intoxicated, and never offered me anything – in fact, forbid others to – so she didn't worry about me, just about his own safety.

We were still in our teens when he told me that he was gay. He made no real secret of it to anybody. I was a total mother hen – my friends frequently called me "Mom" – so my worry about him increased. It was the early 80s, and AIDS was brand new. The CDC had identified three high risk groups – gay men, intravenous drug users and hemophiliacs – and Darren was in two of those groups, and cavalier. "Be careful!" I'd say, over and over. I was terrified that something would happen to him.

He did not share my worry.

He came home from a weekend trip to Las Vegas and told me, rather gleefully, "I was really sleazy this weekend." I was beside myself. "Are you insane? Do you want to get sick? Do you want to die? You CANNOT be sleazy in Vegas!"

He laughed. "That's exactly why you go to Vegas!" he said. Over and over, if I panicked he'd shrug and say, "If I'm going to get it, I'm going to get it. I'm not going to worry." I tried not to make myself frantic.

When he was diagnosed as HIV+, just a year or two later, I never again criticized his behavior.

I read every news story about treatments, hoping for a cure.

Darren did my makeup for my engagement portraits; I knew he'd do a better job than I would.

After I got married and moved to a small town hours away, Darren sent me a stack of photos from Reno, "so you won't be so homesick." One of my favorites was a shot of the sign outside of a business that I used to pass daily while I was at work, "The Hitchin' Post Wedding Chapel." It was one of the tackiest things I'd ever seen, and he knew it. Another favorite was a shot of a man walking toward the dumpster in Darren's apartment complex. On the back Darren had written, "This bum goes through my garbage every day." I laughed out loud; I still laugh at that.

He moved to Hollywood, where he kept a coffin in his living room ("This is the guest bed,") and once hung his Christmas tree upside down. He became fascinated by vampire stories. (Now that vampires are mainstream, I wonder what he would have thought about the whole "Twilight" thing.) One of the last photos he sent me before he got very sick is the photo that still hangs on my wall. He's sitting, in sunglasses and impeccable clothes, on the beach in Santa Monica.

Once when we were both visiting our parents at the same time, he walked around the corner to see my family. My older daughters were probably 3 and 4 at the time, and fascinated by his left arm. He had a bat tattoo that extended the entire length, with the bat's body in the crook of his elbow and the outstretched wings going from wrist to shoulder. My girls had never seen anything like it, and they trailed their fingers over the drawing. "What is that?" "How did you do that?" "Does it come off?" they wanted to know. His concise answer: "With needles. It hurts. Don't do it." Is there a better way for an honorary uncle to explain body art to preschoolers? I don't think so.

He never said so, but I think he appreciated the fact that we weren't reactionary and paranoid about getting sick ourselves. In the late 80s, some people were still saying things like, "How do we know for sure the virus can't be airborne?" We hugged him; my kids sat on his lap. He was no danger to us.

When he got so sick that he could no longer live alone, he called to arrange to stop by my house on his drive from California to Pennsylvania with his mother, moving from his Hollywood home to hers outside of Philadelphia. My husband was at work and my kids were at school when they came through, and they only had about half an hour to spend, but it was nice having him almost to myself one more time. He was starting to look, and feel, a little too thin, but if you passed him on the street you wouldn't have known that he was ill. I got to hug him twice more before we were separated by thousands of miles.

"I need to see Darren one more time when it gets really bad," I told my husband.  He didn't even hesitate; Darren was family. Another dear friend, whom he'd called "Little Sister" for years, talked with me and decided that she, too, would fly out if we sensed that he was slipping away.

Darren took up sewing. In the last two photos he sent to me, he's modeling a coat he made and holding up a quilt he'd crafted. He finally looked sick, even though the only part of his body you can see clearly is his face. He was far too thin, and his skin was grayish. I bought a plane ticket to Philadelphia.

He phoned me, surprised by the news. "Have you booked a hotel? Don't book a hotel without checking with me! Parts of Philadelphia are really scary; you don't want to go there alone!"

His voice was starting to sound hoarse, and he slurred slightly. He was on an enormous amount of medication, including painkillers.

He phoned a week or so later, and said, "I hope that ticket was refundable. I really don't want you to see me like this. I can't go anywhere or do anything with you anyway." I started to protest, to insist that I didn't care, but he asked, in no uncertain terms, "Please don't come. I don't want you to see me like this. I don't want anybody to see me like this. I want you to remember the way I used to be."

"Is your ticket refundable?" It wasn't, and it cost slightly more than my monthly mortgage payment. "No problem. It's totally refundable," I lied.

I should have made the trip months earlier.

Darren died in 1995; we were both 29. Our friend Sue called to tell me when he passed away. His mother planned a memorial service in California, just 2 hours from me, so that his West Coast friends could attend. I left my girls, now 7 and 8, at home, but brought my infant son, whom Darren had never met. He sat on my lap in his sailor suit, one of three people in the room that I knew, Darren's mom and another high school best friend being the other two.

It was the second time in less than a year that I lost a very dear 20-something friend to disease. No matter how much time you have to "prepare," you're never prepared. I felt decades too young for my friends to be sick enough to die. Accidents I could have understood. Illness seemed somehow wrong.

Professional modeling photos from his time in LA sat in frames in the middle of the room, and the mourners sat in a circle. His aunt read a poem, some formal words were said, and then the time was opened to the rest of us for remarks. Everyone sat in silence; his friends from LA sat across from me looking uncomfortable.

Nobody wants to go first, I realized. OK, I'll go.

I told stories. I talked about the rubber noses, the ever changing array of cars, the things we'd done while growing up. I don't remember a fraction of what I said, but when most of his family laughed at something, I knew it was OK. And after the ice was broken, then others felt comfortable getting up and speaking.

After the service was over, his friends from LA came over to talk to me. "Until you got up to speak, I almost thought I was at the wrong service," one of them joked. "After you spoke, I thought, 'That's the Darren I know.' "

Sometimes, in my sleep, my brain forgets that he's gone. And I never dream about him sick; he's always healthy, vibrant and grinning. I can hear that distinctive laugh, just as clearly as I ever could.

I miss you, Darren. I love you always.

Are We There Yet?

Two things prompt me to share this essay now, even though I wrote it years ago. One, I just returned from a great trip to visit my oldest child and her husband.

Two, I spent a great deal of time on the phone today with a frazzled Expedia customer service rep who was rebooking the trip we have planned, in several months, to celebrate my husband's 50th birthday and my brother's 60th birthday. We're all headed to Hawaii, somewhere my brother's never been. We researched this trip for over a year, watched prices fairly obsessively, squirreled away money and finally booked a few weeks ago. We booked at a golf resort on Oahu's leeward shore, not because we love golf (none of us play) but because it had a great price on what we wanted - mini suites with kitchenettes. Apparently those great prices were their last ditch effort to stay afloat, because they just declared bankruptcy. They'll be closing in a month, displacing hundreds of holiday travelers and those like us who are leaving months after the holidays.

"Thank you so much for having a sense of humor and being patient!" the Expedia rep said to me. "I've been on the phone with angry people all day." No sense in getting angry here. Hey, even though the new booking would have originally cost us more, they're changing our reservation for free because we already booked and paid. Plus, we're going to Hawaii! How bad can it be?

(Note to self and others - I've never dealt with Expedia customer service before, but based on this experience, I highly recommend them.)

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I believe firmly in the value of travel. My parents had very little discretionary income – truth be told, they had little income to cover a lot of necessities. Yet, we took a family vacation every year, and more day trips than I can count. It was just part of the fabric of life.

I can only remember staying in a motel twice. We may have done so more than that, but it was extremely rare. We stayed with relatives, or we camped. I could spot a KOA Kampground sign from miles away, even before I could read. I went on an airplane for the first time at seventeen; we always drove wherever we were going. (Airplanes were for rich people.) When we could, we picnicked instead of eating at restaurants. And yet, we covered thousands of miles. We visited volcanoes, geysers, the ocean, the redwoods. We saw moose, elk, antelope, buffalo and bears. We swam, fished, hiked, climbed, and spent time just sitting in patio chairs.

When I was the only child left at home, and a teenager besides, family vacations seemed less relevant. Still, I went to Disneyland with my friends two years in a row, with my mom along as a chaperone. I spent a week with my dad and my cousin in her cabin. There were still day trips with my family, but now there were day trips with friends as well. We once drove to a neighboring city just to eat at a particular Japanese restaurant. I've never had wanderlust in the sense of having to constantly change dwellings and/or jobs, but if I spend too long without getting out of town at all, I get antsy and grumpy.

After growing up and getting married, Dan and I took our first family vacation when our oldest child was eight months old. (We'd been married for about a year and a half.) It took a bit of talking to convince my husband that it was a good idea; he was much less sold on the idea of yearly vacations (or, really, any vacations) than I was. We stayed with my sister in Orange County, and spent a day at Disneyland as just a couple while my sister babysat. Suddenly, Dan felt better about vacations. Since then, we've made sure to take a trip every year, and occasionally more.

I sat once, years ago, around a table with a group discussing a mutual friend and her post retirement travels. She and her husband, it seemed, spent more time away from home than they did in their own house. Their latest trip had taken them to Europe. We were all quite jealous. Then someone said something that demonstrated a sharp divide between my opinion and that held by the rest of the group.

"Well," she said, "I guess you can go all those places if you don't care what kind of hotel you stay in. I mean, they'll stay in discount motels."

Another woman agreed. "And they'll fly coach. All the way across the ocean!"

"They don't eat fancy food, either. They'll just pick up something simple in a pub."

"Sure, you can go anywhere, I guess, if you're willing to put up with that."

Then the fantasizing started. "If I were to go, I'd want five star everything – hotels, restaurants. I'd want first class plane tickets; you know, where they give you hot towels and eye masks and even foot massages."

The conversation went on while I sat amazed, wondering if they'd noticed that I was no longer saying anything. The thing that truly amazed me was that these were people who not only did not take five star vacations, they didn't normally take any. I'd known them for years; they were not travelers. I sat thinking, if the choice is between motels and pub food and not going anywhere, the choice is easy for me. Bring on Motel 6!

I've stayed in lovely resorts with helpful concierges and free group activities. I don't have the money or inclination to go five star, but I do know the difference between those properties and some others I've stayed in, like the motel made from mobile homes, whose pool was a Doughboy. Still, to me a room is a place to sleep, shower and dress. As long as it's clean and I can sleep, I'm happy. The reason I'm there has nothing to do with the hotel I'm in.

I don't even need a great view. I'll be leaving it all day anyway, and it doesn't do me much good when I'm asleep. I was glad my oldest daughter shared this opinion when she went on her high school graduation trip. She and her two best friends spent a week in Hawaii, and out of necessity they booked an inexpensive room in a high rise hotel. They took gleeful photos of each other standing in front of their windows, indicating the view – a multi level parking garage, so close to the cars that they could see make, model and plate number. They didn't care. They were 18 years old and in Hawaii without parents! They went snorkeling and to luaus, but because they were teenagers, they didn't have endless funds. Lana, my daughter, spoke fondly of buying 99 cent fruit and yogurt parfaits from a fast food restaurant, and then eating them on Waikiki Beach, feeling on top of the world.

Our four children had a great time on our various travels when they were growing up, but they're also kids. We listened to hours of complaining and bickering. "We'll be in the car for how many hours? I hate the car! I'll be so-o-o-o bored!" Siblings who were barely civil to each other when they shared a room were often thrown into the same bed, resulting in a recitation at breakfast of who kicked whom, who stole the covers, who snored and who hogged the bed.

For our first trip to Hawaii, we had to drive for four hours to the airport, then spend approximately six hours on a plane. The older two complained so long and so loudly about the travel time that we finally threatened to leave them at home with Grandma, as they were clearly missing the point. They grudgingly agreed that maybe they could stop complaining long enough to get to Hawaii.

Once we got there, we also listened to our ten year old complain that we didn't spend enough time at the hotel pool. "We're always leaving the hotel to go somewhere!" she groused. I finally had to say, "We did not spend thousands of dollars and come thousands of miles to the most remote pieces of land on the planet simply to stay in our hotel! There are swimming pools at home."

Every parent would also recognize our battles about what they could and could not buy, and where we could and couldn't go. Children who used the bathroom twice a day at home suddenly needed us to stop the car every hour so they could use gas station restrooms. We endured complaints about the food, the weather, the scenery and everything else.

It took years before we knew that, despite all that, they actually did get something out of the long drives and shared beds. When Lana went hundreds of miles away to college, she met kids from all over, kids with a variety of backgrounds. She found one fact about her new friend Sarah very odd. "Mom," she told me over the phone, "can you believe that she's never been anywhere? She's been in her hometown and here at school! That's it! We have to plan a girlfriend trip and take her somewhere!"

Here's a Thought...

                I've been married for longer than I was alive before I met my husband. I've been a parent for longer than I was childless. I hit both of those markers years ago. Since I expected to spend most of my life as a married parent, I am neither surprised nor dismayed.

                I don't tend to pat myself on the back too much, either, unless I'm exposed to some train wreck of a life that makes me think, "How is it that you didn't see that coming? Amateur."

                I continue to be baffled by other people and their thoughts on marriage and parenthood, though. That's also nothing new, but it is continually astonishing.

                Years ago, I ran into a high school friend I'd lost track of just after she graduated. I was 24 and she was 21; I'd last seen her shortly after my wedding. I had a husband, two kids and a mortgage. She was divorced. "You're still with the same man?" she said. "That's so cute."

                Um, yeah. That's just how we thought of ourselves – so cute.

                (That's sarcasm, folks; I've discovered that I have to label it, or people can't tell.)

                A few years later, I was commiserating with a girlfriend as she griped about annoying male habits. I agreed with her on some point or other, saying the usual, "I know exactly what you mean."

                "No, you don't!" she said. "You don't know about men! You're married!"

                Wow. "And I married what, exactly, a hamster?" I asked.

                "No. Well, you know what I mean. You aren't out there, like, dating or anything."

                "How many hours a day do you spend with your boyfriend? I live with a man!"

                "It's not the same."

                "I know! I live with a man."

                She remained firm in her assessment that my lack of dating experience meant that I knew little about men. "You know about your husband, not about men in general." Well, OK, but that's like telling the mother of an infant that she doesn't know about babies, or a sick person that they don't know about disease. It may not be all-encompassing information, but by golly, it's first hand, reliable and in depth.

                Actually, I was always sure – and I still am – that I knew more about men from being "one of the guys" than I would if I was dating any of them. Guys, think about how you behaved around your buddies, and how you behaved around girls that you wanted to impress. If you grew up with me, think about the times you hushed me before I spilled the beans in front of your girl. Who knew you better – that is to say, who had a more accurate picture of what went on in your head and your life?

                What I want to talk about today, though, is one of the commonly held beliefs that just don't make any sense to me. I mean, as usual, I can tell you why people believe what they do, but to me it seems fairly ridiculous.

                I cannot come up with any compelling reason to believe that sleeping around before you get married will make you more likely to be happy settling down and being monogamous after married.

                Leave all of your preconceived ideas about choosing sex partners aside and consider the two following scenarios.

                Scenario One: It is perfectly morally acceptable to have sex with anyone who wants to have sex with you. In fact, you are encouraged to have many different partners in relationships lasting anywhere from minutes to years. You will never be able to be truly satisfied and happy with your life unless you've experienced everything that's out there. Try any number of sexual philosophies and practices, and enjoy them all. Then, one day, meet someone you will love more than you'll ever love anyone else, someone who is more compatible with you than anyone else ever will be. From that point on, you will only have sex with that one person. Even if you meet many willing, attractive, compatible individuals after you've made this commitment, even though in days or years past it would have been acceptable or encouraged to bed them, now you can't, because you've chosen your one.

                Scenario Two: You have always known that you will only ever have sex with one person. Before you make that commitment to your one, no matter who offers, the answer is no. You very carefully choose your one, because it's a matter of great importance. After you have actually made that (lifelong!) commitment, you are encouraged to have sex as often as you both wish.

                Now ask yourself: which person is more likely to be happy with their partner, happy with their sex life and content in a life of commitment and monogamy, someone who lived life #1 or life #2? Who is going to be more likely to fear that they didn't get a chance to do everything and to meet everyone?

                Right now, before you tell me at once how wrong I am, how unrealistic and naïve and stupid, and and and, let's set the parameters.

                You probably noticed that I talked about giving consent and being willing, but didn't tie it in to the usual noun that follows the word consenting in these discussions, "adult." That's because I'm thinking about all the people of my acquaintance who were having sex before they were adults. By and large, they felt justified in doing so then, and as adults they say things like, "Kids are going to have sex. It's just a foregone conclusion." I am not, for purposes of this discussion, bringing in the idea of adult to child sex, although I have heard people make that argument. ("In past centuries," they say, "it was just understood that…" Or, "We like to deny that children are sexual creatures, but they're not." I'm not going to have that discussion right now.)  I'm assuming that we're talking about teens to teens or adults to adults, with about a 4 year wiggle room margin.

                I'm also not going to muddy the waters with a discussion on the exact definition and purpose of "consent." The standard definition is my preferred one, thanks, and I'm not going to get into minutae like, "After how many drinks?"

                I also know people who will be practically yelling right now that this is why monogamy is flawed and unnecessary, because it sets people up for failure. I am not OK with that philosophy. Did we learn nothing from the key parties and "open marriage" movement of the 1970s? Wait, of course we didn't. Humans are notoriously bad at learning from the experiences of others; why do I bother to ask? If you need me to pull statistics on how often "open" relationships fail, on their own or in comparison to monogamous relationships, I'll do that. However, I think we can all be grown up and informed enough to agree that giving your significant other your blessing to have sex outside of your relationship does not guarantee that your relationship will be successful, or even that it will be free from jealousy.

                While I'm not advocating, obviously, condemning those who had sex before they were married (I find that I have to state the obvious, or someone will argue the point), I am puzzled as to how anyone thinks that having multiple partners before marriage means that you'll be happier after marriage. I remember talking to the adorable 18 year old ingénue in a play we were both in years ago. She was gushing about her boyfriend, and another cast member asked her if she thought he'd be proposing soon. She was aghast. "Oh, no! My dad would kill me if I settled down before I sowed my wild oats!" she said. I just can't imagine.

I also couldn't wrap my head around it when a friend's mother kept encouraging her not to "rush things" by getting married to a man she'd lived with for five years. When did that become "rushing?" She insisted that she loved the daughter's beau, that he was a great guy and that they were smart people, but she panicked every time they said, "engaged" or "married." If I was cautioning one of my kids about a relationship of five years or more, it would be because I thought the partner was a bad choice, period, not because I thought they were rushing things.

I was equally puzzled when a friend broke up with her high school sweetheart when they were well into adulthood because, "I don't want to be with him just because I've never experienced anything else." Think about your best friend, the one you've known for years, the one who knows you inside and out, the one you can't wait to phone with news and spend all the time you can with. Would you ever say, "Geez, you've been an amazing friend, and I have no complaints, you've seen me through so much, but I've just got to dump you so I can see if there's someone more amazing out there"?

After they broke up and she started dating other people, she felt that the fact that she found new relationships that she was happy in (but nothing permanent so far) was a clear indicator that she'd had the wrong guy before. After all, if she was "supposed" to be with him, wouldn't life be unremitting misery without him? The fact that she found other men attractive, enjoyed their company, and had great sex with some, meant that her earlier, long standing relationship had been "wrong," she was sure.

Was I the only one who went into marriage intending to stay married and stay faithful while fully aware that I would undoubtedly, in the future, meet guys who would be great catches if I was single? Full TMI disclosure: I have had sex with 1 person in my life. I have met many that were charming, funny and delightful, who made my hormones buzz, who caused momentary daydreams or wishes that it was morally acceptable to sleep around. I kept my clothes on; it wasn't that huge an exercise in willpower. It was simply what I expected life to be like. I do not feel deprived. I am not missing out. If I was unsure about that, I have only to look at the lives of others to see it. They took what is, for me, the road not taken, and I wouldn't trade places.

I'm also not advocating staying in a bad relationship because "you made your bed, now lie in it," or because you can't bear to be wrong or to feel like the time you spent together was a "waste." (Did you learn from it? That's not a waste of time, even when you have to end it.) I'm here because I choose to be, not because I don't know that I have other choices available. I have a deal breaker list; everyone should. My husband knows what's on it, and it's nonnegotiable. Some people are in relationships from which they should RUN, not walk. I don't think that negates the idea that sleeping around is bad.

I don't believe in the idea that there is only one perfect match for everyone, and you either find that match or settle for second best all your life. Any number of people could be a perfect match for you, or me. That doesn't mean that choosing one is a bad idea. It doesn't mean that monogamy is doomed to fail.

I also think that the people who say to me, "Oh, I'm SO glad I didn't stay with my first boyfriend/girlfriend" don't negate it, either. The question at hand is whether it's easier to "settle down" after feeling free to have sex with any available partner, not whether or not young people generally have good taste or a sense of long term goals and how to get there. (For the record, some do and some don't. That shouldn't surprise anyone.)

I know many people who are monogamous after a very non-monogamous past. I know it can be done, and I know that people can be happy doing it. I just think it would be an easier transition if their past had been celibate. I know it would be tough for me to go through life thinking, "Oh, geez, why didn't I meet you earlier?"

So many people tell their kids not to drink until they're adults, but that it's OK then. The concept of, "not now, but feel free when the circumstances are right" shouldn't be foreign. Nobody feels that it's burdensome to keep people besides their spouse out of their finances and child rearing – why should it be burdensome to keep them out of your pants?

I submit that it isn't.