My father tells me that old habits die slowly, if ever. He may be right.
by Jane D.
I recently took the ferry to New Jersey to swim with another pseudo-boyfriend, the doctor who I've been having breakfast with for the past three months. (Once again, he insisted on paying for the meal.)
Afterward, we hung out at his apartment with a panoramic view of Manhattan. But, as we leaned over the balcony, watching the barges go by and the clouds roll in, he barely looked at me or made a move. I'm starting to think that maybe he's a closet gay. Or maybe he's a commitment phobe—but aren't they all?
His apartment is so neat, so clean. The bills sorted, the magazines piled by size, not a speck of dust, and somehow I can't imagine a life as such. I am envious of its simplicity, and yet, it seems so sterile, so blah—too perfect.
The father says that old habits die slowly, if ever. The other night, we chatted about my frustrations over the stupid, idiotic mistakes I've been making. I've been once again packing the schedule with too much stuff, overloading the plate, and watching the pieces fall off, one by one.
A habit that has always driven him up the wall is when I leave half-drunken cans of Diet Coke in the fridge. He has repeatedly asked me to drink what I pour, to buy the short, stocky, midget-sized cans, even if it means paying more for them.
"It's like telling a fat person to eat less. It's so obvious, so fixable. Personal habits die slowly. It's possible, but it's like turning around a jumbo jet," the father said. "You need to do it slowly."
But the habit remains like a scar. If I am in a funk, it is because I've come to believe that my ADD self will always be such.