interloping and self-searching on a monday night

Monday was Eric's twenty-second birthday. We celebrated it fairly unassumingly. He doesn't like a lot of birthday hoopla; I didn't even tell the waiter at the restaurant about the occasion, even though that move may have cost us a free piece of cake and one of those fun little sparklers. Instead we discussed the couple eating dinner behind us. They were preppy and pretty and celebrating their one-year-anniversary. She wore a dress and had obviously spent a very long time on her hair. He wore a sweater-vest and tie and ordered her meal for her. She bragged to the waiter about the occasion. Eric and I, always the interlopers, felt superior and mature. "Soon your 'night out' will be to Applebee's and the cheap theatres," I thought. And, of course, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. It's just that I don't curl my hair and Eric doesn't wear sweater-vests, but I bet we're closer than they are. They seemed formal. Conversation seemed awkward. I felt like Eric and I were on one team and they were on another -- who has a better relationship? Whose dinner at Cafe Select is more meaningful?

Later, Eric and I got into sweatpants and watched the videos he'd taken while he was in Africa. They were funny and beautiful and inspiring and interesting. Afterwards, he looked me in the eye and asked, "why are we not who we want to be?"

Why are we not who we want to be?

Eric wants to be the guy who goes to Africa. He wants to be helpful to society. He wants to send food and entertainment and resources to his African friends. He wants to take pictures of people and things and feel good about his direction in life. He wants to start a band.

And I don't know who I want to be. It's not quite exactly what I am currently, though. That I do know.