The Other Six Halves of My Brain--well, one of them, at least
Brian is one of my best friends. We met at rehearsal for some lame musical that he was performing in and I was painting sets for. It was 1992. We were sixteen. Going on seventeen. The show was NOT The Sound of Music.
We somehow discovered that we both had a fondness for classic rock, clear gummi bears, and the theme song to The Great Space Coaster. We also had a knack for predicting people’s defining personality traits based on their answers to a few seemingly random questions, one of which involved gummi bear color preference. It was like a Rorshach test for the new millennium. We were frighteningly accurate in our deductions. It freaked people out. This was clearly a match made in heaven.
When such a relationship comes along, the random things that you have in common are just the shorthand way to express a connection that you really have no other words to define. Occasionally I get even lazier and just say that he has the other half of my brain. If scientifically possible, though, this would be mathematically inaccurate, because I have had the great fortune to have encountered about half a dozen people who could have been dealt the other half of my brain. Luckily, sharing my brain means they don't mind if I write about them.
Our brain-sharing provoked gossip. On more than one occasion, I was followed into the girls’ bathroom by some moony-eyed member of the Brian Fan Club wanting to know what exactly I did to earn his unwavering affection. Then I nearly got kicked out of school for some bullshit that involved a rumor about us that was not true.
Trust me. I would have known if this one was true.
The principal backed down once I told her that I wasn’t going to respond any further unless she called in my mother, my guidance counselor, and my lawyer. Next time I got called into the principal’s office, it was because she needed help changing the film in her 35mm camera.
If we provoked this kind of gossip within only weeks of meeting, what the hell kind of trouble could we get each other into if we remained friends? In the thirteen years of research known as our friendship…well…we haven’t been arrested together yet. And we haven’t gone bungee jumping. Yet. Mostly our friendship is based on the mutual support of getting ourselves into situations that other people would counsel us to avoid. I rather recall several people counseling me to avoid him. Clearly, trying to talk me out of places, people, or things that I feel drawn to doesn't work so well.
Brian doesn’t get me into trouble. I do it myself. I pick up and go places other people don’t, geographically and/or mentally. I look at the line in the sand and say, “hey, I wonder what it looks like from the other side.” Then I step over. So does he. Then we just sort of magically appear when the other wakes up face down in the sand. At high tide.
I never liked making mistakes. Despite the fact that I often got myself into trouble, people always thought it seemed out of character because I was “such a good student.” I believed them. They were wrong. Making mistakes is not out of character for me. Getting into trouble is not out of character for me. Your messes define you, more than your successes ever could.
A lot of people back in high school would have enjoyed the thought of one of us stabbing the other in the back with a rusty fork. I was always rather upfront about my conviction that such a thing wouldn’t happen. Forget all that "giving part of yourself" bullshit. Some people just show up with it already in their pocket. And you never really doubt that it’s safe there.
We somehow discovered that we both had a fondness for classic rock, clear gummi bears, and the theme song to The Great Space Coaster. We also had a knack for predicting people’s defining personality traits based on their answers to a few seemingly random questions, one of which involved gummi bear color preference. It was like a Rorshach test for the new millennium. We were frighteningly accurate in our deductions. It freaked people out. This was clearly a match made in heaven.
When such a relationship comes along, the random things that you have in common are just the shorthand way to express a connection that you really have no other words to define. Occasionally I get even lazier and just say that he has the other half of my brain. If scientifically possible, though, this would be mathematically inaccurate, because I have had the great fortune to have encountered about half a dozen people who could have been dealt the other half of my brain. Luckily, sharing my brain means they don't mind if I write about them.
Our brain-sharing provoked gossip. On more than one occasion, I was followed into the girls’ bathroom by some moony-eyed member of the Brian Fan Club wanting to know what exactly I did to earn his unwavering affection. Then I nearly got kicked out of school for some bullshit that involved a rumor about us that was not true.
Trust me. I would have known if this one was true.
The principal backed down once I told her that I wasn’t going to respond any further unless she called in my mother, my guidance counselor, and my lawyer. Next time I got called into the principal’s office, it was because she needed help changing the film in her 35mm camera.
If we provoked this kind of gossip within only weeks of meeting, what the hell kind of trouble could we get each other into if we remained friends? In the thirteen years of research known as our friendship…well…we haven’t been arrested together yet. And we haven’t gone bungee jumping. Yet. Mostly our friendship is based on the mutual support of getting ourselves into situations that other people would counsel us to avoid. I rather recall several people counseling me to avoid him. Clearly, trying to talk me out of places, people, or things that I feel drawn to doesn't work so well.
Brian doesn’t get me into trouble. I do it myself. I pick up and go places other people don’t, geographically and/or mentally. I look at the line in the sand and say, “hey, I wonder what it looks like from the other side.” Then I step over. So does he. Then we just sort of magically appear when the other wakes up face down in the sand. At high tide.
I never liked making mistakes. Despite the fact that I often got myself into trouble, people always thought it seemed out of character because I was “such a good student.” I believed them. They were wrong. Making mistakes is not out of character for me. Getting into trouble is not out of character for me. Your messes define you, more than your successes ever could.
A lot of people back in high school would have enjoyed the thought of one of us stabbing the other in the back with a rusty fork. I was always rather upfront about my conviction that such a thing wouldn’t happen. Forget all that "giving part of yourself" bullshit. Some people just show up with it already in their pocket. And you never really doubt that it’s safe there.
Labels: my disaffected postadolescence, Oh the things you will learn, synchronicities, the GBF
posted by Jill at
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