Stephen Sondheim's Company begins its story of Robert, a 35-year-old bachelor in New York City, on his birthday night, celebrating with his married friends who constantly worry about his singlehood, all the while he denies wanting to be married, wanting companionship and the responsibilities of a relationship. Sam and I watched a local production of it Friday night, and I did not expect to still be thinking about it this morning.
Though I am not single, the very idea of a (young?) guy in his 30s living in a big city and perpetually thinking about the nature of human connection begs me to draw similarities between me and Robert. I, too, spend a lot of time reflecting on love and relationships, my own and others, real and fiction. That two people can find each other in an endless stream of other people astounds me, and how these two people manage to stay together for any amount of time, well, that could be nothing short of a miracle. What about all the other people, all the possibilities that await over a cup of coffee, a cocktail, while standing in line at the ATM?
I used to have this slightly thought-out philosophy that all it took to dismantle a couple was one better person, be it better looking, a better listener, shared interests, more understanding, and so on and so on. To even entertain the notion that there could be no person better than the one at hand seems recklessly optimistic at best. Of course, I fostered this theory back when I was a much more cynical of a person.
Ironically, or at least unexpectedly, age has made me more idealistic, more faithful in the existence of miracles. I turn 31 next week, less a milestone of a birthday than a routine one (most, if not all, birthdays after 21 are, I guess, nothing more than routine; a friend once said that birthdays are like blackjack--anything over 21 is just a bust), but still, birthdays always makes me think a little bit on my life, where I am, what I want.
And that's where Company really caught my attention. After two hours of surprisingly catchy and memorable numbers (like I said, I was not a fan of Sondheim pre-Friday), one quick line in the middle of the last song shot straight into my ears. For the finale, Robert stands among friends celebrating yet another birthday, and he ponders what a relationship gets you--from intense love to devastating pain, from pleasant company to ruined sleep--wavering between asking for these things and shunning them. Toward the end, a friend asks him to blow out his birthday candles and make a wish. "Want something!" she said. "Want something!"
Sam and I are in what I would say a healthy-enough, happy-enough relationship somewhere between domestic bliss and the old married couple who go about their days tolerating each other. On most days, we skew toward bliss, and of course I want that. But on some days, every so often, we lean toward tolerance, just like every relationship out there, I imagine. Or I hope.
And I know that on those latter, tolerating days of previous relationships, I would convince myself that I didn't want to be in that couplehood at all (even if I did), didn't know what I want, didn't want to step forward, take a risk and admit that I might know something of what I want, something that would have hurt too much to lose if I admitted I had wanted it at all.
When the woman told Robert to "want something," I heard it as a commandment, to not go through life thinking I am safer if I never express a desire for something, a need. And now, Sam is sitting in the living room with one foot resting on the pup, one finger on his new iPhone, and every so often one eye on the inane Japanese anime on the Cartoon Network. And I sit in the kitchen writing this, wanting.
I understand what it means to want. You're not alone in the world.
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