Alan Ilagan

A lot of thoughts ran through my head when I saw this woman at the café this week. Thoughts about hair, and fur, and footwear, and appropriate pant/sock length, but I am refraining from putting such thoughts down here, because not everyone would take them as intended.

The last time I was on the Orange Line, I took a picture of a fellow passenger and posted it on FaceBook with the caption, “This is why I don’t take the Orange Line.” It was a thirty-degree day in March, but the wind-chill made it feel like zero, and he was wearing shorts. His socks were pulled up as high as they would go, but not high enough to hide the map of veins and tattoos that he had accrued over the course of his lifetime. A fleece pull-over capped the look.

It was the shorts that bothered me – anyone who wears shorts in the midst of winter and is not running to or from the gym will always be considered “off” in my book. Being that this person had a bag of groceries and was leisurely reading a newspaper on the subway indicated that he was not in a dash from the gym to his car or vice-versa. So I posted the photo and soon got called out for judging some innocent fashion victim. The person even went so far as to use one of my favorite F. Scott Fitzgerald quotes against me:

“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone… just remember that not everyone has had the advantages that you’ve had.”

Ouch. To be honest, “This is why I don’t take the Orange Line” is about the nicest thing I would say about a badly-outfitted stranger, which is why I was taken aback by the call-out. I say much worse things about my boss, to her face, and about my co-workers, than I did about this stranger on the T. But it got me thinking about how I’m perceived. I always sort of assume that people “get” me – that they know my comments and put-downs are never meant in seriousness, nor are they intended to hurt or even judge anyone. They’re part of the “arrogant prick” image I jestfully cultivate. Those who know me, and the close friends I have surrounded myself with, understand this. Otherwise, who would maintain a friendship with me for decades if you’re just going to get shit on every day?

I’ve been called out a few times this year for having made similar comments – and every time it gives me pause and makes me wonder if I am too harsh. Usually I end up apologizing profusely and having Andy bake something for the offended party. The thing is, I only tease the ones I love, and if you don’t know that, or can’t handle that, then you’re not going to be loved by me for much longer. (And if you think I’m harsh on others, you don’t know half of the misery I inflict on myself.)

I feel that anyone who takes offense at those silly jibes doesn’t really know me, and so I’ve learned to keep my distance. I’ll laugh and joke with them on the surface, I’ll interact with them on FaceBook, but I know they’ll never be one of my confidantes, and I’ll never trust them to get close to me. That’s fine – my lifetime circle of friends was forged years ago, and it’s as full and fulfilling as I could ever want. As for my opinion of strangers I see, I reserve the right to judge and condemn on a sartorial basis, because once you go out in public you are subject to public scrutiny.

That said, I will do my best to be a little kinder, because perception is too often confused with reality. I know this, and I can play the game as well as the next guy – but bear in mind that there will be an emptiness behind the friendly smile, and the kinder, gentler version you’ll get will be less-than-genuine. If that’s all you want out of life, have at it. Some people are content to live on the surface, satisfied by a superficial smile of supposed approval. Personally, I would rather die than accept any such happy mediocrity.

“Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

After almost every party I’ve ever given, there is an F. Scott Fitzgerald quote (from Tender is the Night) that somewhat encapsulates what I feel:

… One of his characteristic moods was upon him, the excitement that swept everyone up into it and was inevitably followed by his own form of melancholy, which he never displayed, but at which she guessed. This excitement about things reached an intensity out of proportion to their importance, generating a really extraordinary virtuosity with people. Save among a few of the tough-minded and perennially suspicious, he had the power of arousing a fascinated and uncritical love. The reaction came when he realized the waste and extravagance involved. He sometimes looked back with awe at the carnivals of affection he had given, as a general might gaze upon a massacre he had ordered to satisfy an impersonal blood lust.

You’d think that after throwing a wedding reception for 200 people I might feel this way more than ever, but you’d be wrong. For perhaps the first time, it was all worth it, and Andy and I will harbor the memories of that evening like a treasured gift from an old friend.

Once I get all the party photos together, I’ll post a few more. For now, and forever, it will reside in our memory bank, a safe-guarded jewel that we will have when the weather turns cold and the world turns bleak.

He smiled understandingly – much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced – or seemed to face – the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.

Precisely at that point it vanished – and I was looking at an elegant young rough-neck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care.

– F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Andy and I spent an enjoyable weekend in Boston finishing up the last of our wedding preparations. We arrived to a city ensconced in a rain and wind storm, to which both of our umbrellas succumbed before the night blew it out of town.

The next morning dawned with the wind, but the sun soon took over, and I plucked this potent Korean spice viburnum blossom, which filled the bedside table with its fragrance.

We took a brief excursion through the Boston Public Garden just before stopping by Shreve, Crump and Low to try on my wedding ring and see if Andy liked one for himself.

Now we have two, and the only thing left to do is get married.

The whole city appears to have blossomed after the rain, and flowering trees lined our every step.

A single white tulip amid a bed of daffodils.

The cherry blossoms were above us wherever we went, in soft shades of pink and white.

The pink jacket I’ve been searching for proved elusive yet again, even in every single store on Newbury Street. From Ralph Lauren to Marc Jabobs to Lilly Pulitzer to Ted Baker to Neiman Marcus and Saks, nowhere was there a pink jacket to be found in the city of Boston. And so dusk fell…

I think a Spring evening in Boston is one my favorite moments in life, and for some reason always puts me in the mind of Gatsby.

At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others – poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner – young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life. – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Andy and I walked through the South End, stopping for a couple of cookies, then made our way back home. The next time we’ll be in Boston will be for our wedding.