Springtime Blues

I got together with John yesterday. Nice guy who was part of the guinea pig group. He's in his late 40s, and has a weathered look about him. At one point, he was probably good looking, the football player kind, total jock material.

We sat at a bar, and he talked about the litany of failed jobs, the career changes, the way the mysterious beast ate into his work, relationships, friendships—it was all a mystery to him; what was wrong?

He was one big miserable question mark, his self-esteem taking another pot shot every time he went to another job, got into another relationship. I looked deep into his eyes, as blue as the waters in Bermuda. It was the skin and the gut that gave away his vintage.

His tale was so familiar, a life of failures. (Although, on the other hand, he talked about running his own business now from his apartment.) Over club soda and diet coke, we examined how much of the impulsivity and inability to listen and grasp was fear, personality, and commitment phobia, as opposed to ADD. It felt good to finally talk with someone who understood and got it—refreshing and yet it felt a bit like therapy.

He's too old for me. I'm not attracted to him. My heart is with the man who broke it and is supposedly moving away, but I'm only human in that I'd like to replace him. This is more than about being ADD, it’s about being human.