On compromise

It is unbearably hot, so much so that I feel a similar kind of introversion as I do while it’s snowing. Unlike during winter, the outdoors looks so enticing…but it is deception. Sticky, sweaty, hot mess. I realized this is usually around the time I’m on some sort of vacation or maybe just living in a city that I can easily hop into a car or pool.

The Fourth of July weekend is a great time to get in the water. Growing up, I remember hating this holiday (before hating it for political reasons) because I felt like such a friendless loser. We would often go to some sort of party hosted by some coworker of my Dad’s, usually further from civilization (try Zelienople). It would be at a home or condos or wherever, as long as it had a pool.

I was not built for this outing. I was going to be around random adults I’ll never see again, some of whom might have kids (not my age), subjected to my worst picky eater nightmares (The horror! Burgers!). I’d usually just swim around the pool and felt like such a snotty (as in both stuck up and full of snot) goggle-wearer.

We’d watch the fireworks at night. Usually we watched Mt. Lebanon’s from the high school parking lot. When I got older, we’d usually just sit at my Grandma’s backyard and sit around, play with sparklers, and watch my dad set off little fireworks. My dad’s side still keeps up this tradition.

This was always one of the lonelier holidays, especially as I grew with social media. I felt like everyone was hanging out with friends, running around and experiencing youth. I felt stuck to my family and just waiting for the day to end. I remember walking  around that day with my mom on the summer before I went to college after my first big gay breakup and feeling so low. A few summers later, I remember starting to feel the inklings of that same loneliness as I contemplated a different ex’s pitch to open our relationship during study abroad.

Whether real or manufactured, the Fourth was always a time to contemplate why I felt so unsatisfied socially and what was blocking me from having the kinds of friendships I dreamed of. Because of my mom constantly telling me how cool I was, I wasn’t asking myself Why am I such a loser? but instead Why don’t other people see how amazing I am? I intend to inject that same confidence and delusion in my kid someday, but hopefully they will make friends and be normal!

My mom’s been listening to me theorize and feeding me more for years. Was she too strict? Is it because she didn’t let me watch Spongebob? Was I too weird? Was I not athletic enough? Did I sound as insufferable out loud as I did in my head? All of these are solid factors, but within the past year we came to what I think is a great conclusion: I suck at compromising.

I like to think I have wiggle room in doing activities I don’t want to, but I often just completely block out things I don’t want to do. I think this protects me from some of the worlds evils but also prevents me from some of life’s greatest pleasures.

Me in elementary school: Oh, you want to play tag?

Me in middle school: Oh, you want to go to Victoria’s Secret in the mall?

Me in high school: Oh, you want to listen to the 1975?

Me in college: Oh, you want to abandon our original plans to join that group of guys?

Me in New Hampshire: Oh, you want to go on a hike?

Me now: Oh, you want to go for a run?

Compromising became a lot easier in college when I 1. Met cool people 2. Who didn’t know me previously 3. And I chilled out. I didn’t have to fight much about what I was doing because I liked who I was around and was open to new experiences. But I also had some pivotal relationships that required me to compromise a lot, some way too much.

It’s this weird thing, yeah? We are told to hold space for others, to accommodate them and keep context in mind. But we also are told to live individualistic lives, to do whatever we want and not let anyone get in the way of our success. These lifestyles compete, but what’s similar about them is that they both often involve therapyspeak. Hold space and do the work and self-care…all great, in theory!

Bushwick peeps and gentrifier olympians know how to weaponize these ideas best, using therapyspeak to convince their partner that their cheating was okay or avoid paying rent or explain why they only have white friends. I don’t have many heated confrontations with people, but the ones I have had recently usually involve speaking like this, asserting what you want by using language that feigns compassion.

I think I’ve gotten better at compromising because those heated exchanges are few and far between. I’d rather avoid conflict by either changing my expectations or my actions. Also, people are thinking about something outside of themselves (ex: me) way less than we think. I like to think it’s better to hold some compassion.

I am often proven right in my lack of compromise, though. I get to hold my dad accountable every day I don’t speak to him. On a more serious note than that, I eat all the best food because I usually pick where my friends go since they are so indecisive, and they should be so lucky to eat such great food.

Toeing the line is tough. I am often faced with the question of compromise in physical situations, from deciding if I should follow my friend into the woods in elementary school (I would), join my friend on a roller coaster in high school (I wouldn’t), or work out with my friend in the morning (I would in theory but won’t in practice).

On this past Fourth of July, I was exhausted. I was having just the best day with my friends on Fire Island. If you think you know what that place is like but aren’t sure, you’re probably right — it is the gay beach. Looking considerably butcher than my group with my fanny pack, backwards hat, and backpack, I was prepared for a serene day of beaching.

After a long but lovely journey (L train > J train > LIRR > Shuttle bus > Ferry), we had exactly that. We curated a playlist on the commute that blasted from a speaker as we tanned and splashed amongst other queer zillennials. I realized my group was all people who grew up close to beaches. For this Pittsburgher, I could not have a better holiday.

But none of us had eaten yet, and we were hungry. We appeared at a restaurant with a drag show going on a floor below us. We all ordered burgers, including one girl who said she’d never had one before. Imagine being in the kind of crew that peer pressures you to order a burger. Anyway, they were genuinely divine and not just because we were starving and parched.

I was ready to hibernate after a day in the sun and a filling meal; however, it was only 4 p.m. and no one was as sleepy as I was. As I wasted away in a lawn chair and disdain for my body, my friends schemed going to dance at a club in Fire Island Pines, which would be a long-ish walk through the wilderness (and alleged swamp) from where we were in Cherry Grove.

I really did not want to do this. Can’t we just take a moment? Oh wait, we already are. Maybe more than a moment? But I had to tell myself to not be in the driver’s seat since I usually complain that I’m always there anyway. Plus, I felt like such a whale in my old bikini as I thought of the chiseled gay male cliques I’d soon encounter at the club whose eyes would glaze over as they immediately recognized my insecurity.

But whatever. How hard can it be to go somewhere with music that will make me want to sing and hopefully dance? We grabbed our bags and set off. For those of you who don’t know Fire Island, there are no cars or real streets (or bikes, at least that I saw), just pedestrian-sized boardwalks taking you between houses, beach, and the small commercial area.

What a beautiful walk through Cherry Grove that included idyllic beach architecture, quirky, gay porch decor, and signs detailing the area’s history as a gay haven. Did you know this place has been gay since the 1920s? That’s over a hundred years of queerness, through world wars, restrictive lifestyles, and AIDS. How cool to be somewhere that has been like this for this long? On top of that, the nature is beautiful. All different kinds of trees, flowers, and plants, often forming archways over your path.

Time to walk through what we thought might be swampy, the Meat Rack. This median area between the grove and the pines is apparently where people go hook up at night. One gay said this iconic line to us: If you don’t get Lyme disease and chlamydia, did you even go? I thought this meant we were going to walk through a cesspool, and I didn’t think my crocs were prepared for that.

Thankfully, this was both easier and harder than I thought it would be. Easier in surface, since we were just walking on sand (and some dirt), but harder in intensity. What a great calf workout to trudge through that much sand. Even better, this brought me out of my funk and my friends into one, so we didn’t end up clubbing. Instead, we chilled for a while before going back to one of their apartments, showering, and watching Sex and the City while eating Chinese takeout. Bliss!

Anyway, compromise wins because then you end up getting proven right, obviously. But actually it’s much harder because compromise could get you into an abusive relationship, crappy job, or lame city. Just follow your gut and keep it movin’. Hope you spent your day hating our country or shoving hot dogs in your mouth to forget how much you do!