36 PAST COMPENSATION | AMY BOTULA
In my thirties, keeping up became my desire.
I wanted what everyone else had: a husband, a
home, a dog, a baby. I found someone who made
sense—someone newly divorced (road-tested)
and earnest. A former estate attorney with blond
hair, blue eyes, and an Ivy League education, he
was the nice boy suburban mothers want their
daughters to bring home.
But nice was not enough, and neither was
seduction when nice was still in love with his ex-
wife. It took four years for us to face that truth.After we split up, nice was back with his ex-wife
and starting a family within a year. I spun out,
returned to old habits—drinking too much,
blacking out, and moving from bed to bed.
By my mid-forties, I was tired. I eased up on
the drinking and stayed home.then, there was a rock show: a reunion
for Hazel, one of a handful of bands that best
represents my life more than two decades ago,
when so many of us arrived in Portland ready to