A bag of condoms and a box of ex-girlfriends…

As I’ve mentioned, there are many boxes of stuff that have accumulated over the years.  My mom would save anything and everything — and I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.  I also saved quite a bit.  And during my college years, I was moving back and forth between different dorm rooms and my parents’ home. Inevitably certain things would get left behind.

Which, I suppose, was one of the elements which led up to my mom finding this big-ass grocery bag full of condoms in the summer of 1993 amongst my stuff.

I suppose this warrants an explanation: The previous two summers were spent on campus at the University of Maryland as an orientation advisor. This was a combination paid job (albeit not very much — but it did come with some free room and board) and academic experience (there was a three-credit course as a prerequisite) which had me doing more than just giving tours of campus: we were assisting as academic advisors and peer leaders in many different aspects of student life.  We also talked to the incoming students about certain resources on campus which could help them out in a bind. And made them aware of some of the aspects of independent living that might require them, to, um…

Oh, screw it. We showed them a movie about AIDS and HIV and talked about safer sex. And then passed out free condoms, courtesy of the University Health Center.

I already had a standing relationship with the Health Center coming into this — as I was already a peer educator regarding issues of sexual health, sexual communication and sexual assault awareness.  And because of this, I was good friends with Mary, the gatekeeper of the free condoms. Instead of just going to the Health Center to pick them up for each subsequent orientation program, Mary just gave me an industrial sized box and had me divvy them up for the other orientation advisors during their “let’s pass out free condoms to anyone who wants them” sessions.  Which I did.  There were always plenty; this was a very, very big box.  And it turned out that there were a good several hundred extras at the end of the summer.

So I kept them. Passed them out to friends during the school year. Hell — used a few myself. (Yes, they were in bulk packaging, but they had a recognized name brand.)  And in moving my stuff back home at the end of the school year (as I would be out of the country all summer), a bag of them happened to come home with me.

… and was found by Mom a few weeks later.  Who brought them up in conversation with me at that time.

You see, my Mom and I had a truly wonderful relationship — one where we could have possibly talked about anything and it would all be okay.  Or at least both of us felt that we were progressive enough that there would be no subject taboo enough to bring up.  But it was more of an understanding rather than one which was actually used in practice, as we discovered on an eerily awkward car trip one fateful August day.  She brought up the condoms. I laughed and told her about the peer education stuff I had been doing with them. She laughed. We were laughing. It was very casual, care-free. And then I made some comment about how having this supply saved me some money in the long run. She laughed. I laughed. We were laughing some more. And then we spent a good thirty-five minutes in the car not saying word one to each other.

I suppose she was cool talking about such things with anyone. And I was cool talking about such things with anyone.  We both had no problem with the subject matter.  We just didn’t feel like continuing the conversation.  The conversation between us was kind of like getting store-brand ice cream: there’s really nothing wrong with it. In fact, it’s all good. But after partaking of it, in hindsight, you realize that maybe it would have been better if you went in a different direction.

I brought up the conversation with my mom about the bag of condoms when I was chatting with my dad’s girlfriend. I was going through some of the old boxes — this one happened to have old emails and pictures of women with whom I had relationships during my college years.  It was weird seeing a box of my past — memories of who I was in my late teens and early 20s. How I looked, how I acted, and how I treated other people was still a work in progress towards where I went with it a decade and a half later.  There were certainly memories in that box that I wasn’t proud of, and others which I wish I had brought with me along the journey to the present day.

Much of this I choose not to share with others — whether on this blog or in person.  I don’t think anyone would have a problem hearing or reading it.  Perhaps I don’t want it to cloud what people think of me in the here-and-now. Either way — it’s a choice I have made on a case-by-case basis: some things I share, some things I don’t.

I’ve been wrestling with this recently as I’ve gathered more people who are closer to me in real life who follow my blog and/or Twitter.  In my blog’s  previous incarnation I kept things carefully guarded so my identity remained a bit of a mystery. But now? Things are a bit more open. My Dad follows me on Twitter and has read my blog. So have other relatives who have known me since I was an infant, as well as others who have known me on a far less intimate level.  Can I share everything here? Do these people really want to hear about my big bag of condoms and my prophylactic usage in the early ’90s?

Probably not.

But I’m going to post this stuff anyway.  Some of it may cloud your already pre-conceived constructs of me.  It may make for awkward periods of silence. That’s fine. Besides — most of the stuff I write will still (hopefully) be funny, and it’s always okay to laugh at something which may be rather inappropriate.  Please read (or refrain from reading) what you’d like. I’m totally cool with that.

But I must warn you: if hearing about the bag of condoms made you a bit skittish, you’re probably going to be queasy once I blog about the cabhinet full of dildos…