I Just Did Whatever Paul Did.
After meeting Paul, I willingly tossed aside my own life. Being sober meant doing whatever Paul did, mimicking his actions and behaviors, soaking in his knowledge and education, following him around wherever he went.
We hiked mountains, vacationed by the water, camped in cabins, saw concerts, went to AA dances, rode the motorcycle, wandered through gardens, zoos, museums and architectural wonders. We discussed world religions, AA and existential concepts, ideals for our futures. We laughed a lot.
I’d revel in pretending we were an old married couple when he needed to study for his MBA program, lift weights, visit his family, try new recipes or wash his vehicles (very regularly). He shared his favorite music – Jethro Tull and Neil Young – and I rediscovered quality song lyrics.
I started reading books again – Stephen King’s The Stand, followed by every other Stephen King book I could find. Once I tried to make dinner for Paul and created a bowl of tasteless tofu squares – so I tried new hobbies. I rented movies. I read books about cats and tried to train Kitty.
Mostly I just did whatever Paul did, or sat and stared at him as he studied, or watched PBS’ Newshour, or swam like an Olympian in a nearby swimming pool. I didn’t need to build a life of my own, because all I wanted was a life with Paul.
Why would I need to be anyone other than Paul’s significant other? What point would that have? I didn’t need to find myself, to learn about myself, to create – or recreate – myself. I didn’t need to do anything to keep myself sober, because staying sober for Paul was enough.
There were a few things that concerned me, but only momentarily.
For example, one day after I showered, I hung up my towel in Paul’s tiny bathroom as I’d done for many years in my own home. I carefully folded it so that it would dry evenly, rather than crumpling it or hanging it on a hook. I thought I’d done a fine job of hanging that towel.
But Paul directed me back to the bathroom and showed me that I had not, actually, done a fine job.
“See my towel?” he said. “See anything different?”
I looked. I did not see anything different. “They look the same,” I said.
“The tag is showing on yours,” he said. He picked it up, flipped it around, and hung it back on the rack. “See?” No one would ever see that tag now!
In his otherwise empty one-bedroom basement apartment.
“Why does it matter?” I said. “Who’s going to see it?”
“I’ll see it,” Paul said. “It drives me crazy when the tag is showing.”
From then on, I hung up the towel at his house with the tag in the back. At my house, I tried hard to keep that tag hidden, in case he came over.
Then there was the matter of the dead skin exfoliator we used during every shower on our feet.
“You don’t want to have dead-skin heels like Pop-Pop!” he reminded me.
Paul’s grandfather was 86 years old; I was not quite there yet. But I scrubbed my feet at Paul’s house. I thought this was how sober people lived; I didn’t want to screw up.
Paul learned from me, too: he traded his Honda for a Harley so, when we rode, I was way more comfortable. And more people ogled his bike.
Otherwise, I just followed wherever Paul led. I didn’t even have to think for myself. I had no idea how.
Paul became my new favorite drug.