Lone Star State of Mind

I know my post-vacation review on the trip with Rowdy to visit CB has been a long time coming, so here it goes—Texas was basically incredible.  It was a much-anticipated, much-needed, and much-deserved adventure.  And of course, without fail, every adventure of mine does not fail to include some sort of entertaining story.  During our one night out with CB and some of his friends, Rowdy and I were fortunate enough to witness a relationship disagreement.  Oh, and not just any relationship disagreement, but a full-out, straight-from-a-movie-screen, ugly relationship brawl.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...let's start at the beginning.

It is Saturday night deep in the heart of Texas.  The bars are hopping.  The drinks are flowing.  The crowds are partying it up.  Rowdy and I are ready for an evening of non-stop fun and excitement—I mean, we're on vacation, right?  CB and his friend Matthew have introduced us to some of their other friends who we are also at the bar, including a guy named Toad.  We find out that Toad's fiancée is at the bar somewhere, too, but we haven't yet seen her—apparently, she is waiting to make her grand entrance.

We've been at the bar for about an hour when CB comes up to whisper something in my ear.  "Hey, I am so sorry, but I'm going to have to leave you for a bit—some stupid slutty girl is telling Toad's fiancée lies about him, and I'm going to try to put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.  I'll be back as soon as I can," CB promises.  I nod and tell him to go, of course—he's got to help his friend.  (By the way, seriously, he really needs to stop being so wonderful...I can only make excuses to myself for so long.)

So CB goes off in search of Fiancée and Slutty, and Toad stays with us, assumedly staying out of the way until things have been smoothed over.  But CB isn't gone for ten minutes when a cute, blonde, livid-looking chick, determinedly elbowing her way through the massive crowd, comes up behind Toad and shoves him out of nowhere.

"Apparently, this is Ms. Fiancée..." Rowdy remarks with interest, as we watch Fiancée start to ream out Toad while he stands there looking pathetically like a doormat.  She is definitely on the warpath.  I look around for CB, but he's no where in sight.

Just as I turn back to the raging couple, Toad finally says something back to Fiancée—which we quickly learn is not the 'something' she was looking for.  She suddenly stops screaming, takes the glass of red wine in her hand, and furiously splashes its contents right in Toad's face.  Then, since that was obviously not cruel enough, she takes a look at the empty glass in her hand—and spikes it on the floor like she's Tom Brady in the endzone, shattering the glass into tiny shards.

Fiancée muscles through the now-staring crowds and heads for the exit.  The worst part though?  Toad, the stupid loser, runs after her—covered in red wine and all.  Seriously?!?

"Okay, first lesson learned, if you ever get a bit crowded or clausterphobic at the bar, I now know how to clear the area around us quickly," Rowdy comments, amused, as we both look at the open space that has suddenly been created around the shattered glass on the floor.  "Second of all, what the hell?  If anyone ever did that to me, I would definitely not be chasing after that person right now.  Instead, I'd probably be getting arrested, and you'd be attempting to sweet-talk me out of cuffs...."

When CB returns, we give him the update, and he hustles off to help put out fires with his friends.  However, aside from that night, CB spends pretty much the entirety of the weekend with us—and I know he didn't have to.  I enjoyed every single moment in Texas—including the very entertaining spiked-glass drama—and I will finally admit:  I very much enjoyed spending time with CB.

There was an unexpected result of my Texas trip...a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, you might call it.  A ray of sunshine...a star glowing in the darkness...a sign of healing.  You see, this lone star of light was remarkable to me, not simply because it shone far brighter than others and couldn't possibly be ignored, but because it was the first time since my ex-husband left me that I felt any inclination, any thirst, any desire at all that I might, one day, feel something for someone once again.  Up until now, I have wished for the complete opposite:  I have wanted to be absolutely happy on my own forever.  And out of nowhere, there was a flash—a small second of hope for something different.

I received this from CB when I got back home:

Hey there.  Glad you had fun.  I had a great time hanging out with you.  You made hanging out easy.  It was the best weekend I've had in a long time (despite my obligations to leave you on Sat. and try to diffuse the relationship bomb).  I'm looking forward to seeing you again in [your city next month].

For clarification, I booked the trip right before you came in town (but after we had e-mailed regularly).  I told my sister not to tell you in case we didn't get along for whatever reason, but I was hoping we got along as well as we did, and well, we did.  Should be a fun time.

Now, let's not go crazy; the flash didn't last that long.  It is certainly not as though I've found Prince Charming on his white horse, and suddenly I'm whole again.  In fact, I'm quite sure that Mr. Right could find me, appear to me tomorrow, and I wouldn't know him at all—I'm still too broken to see the forest for the trees.  But the fact that I feel anything at all for CB—even if I have no idea what those feelings are or what they mean right now—has to be a sure sign that healing after divorce is possible.  It's taken me over nine months now to see that lone star of light, but I'm definitely glad that I did.

And who knows?  Maybe a happy ending will happen for me someday—just not yet.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Evalu-date Session with the Wee Scott

My friend Dolly has a local guy friend who is from Scotland.  And he is a bit on the short side (for a guy, anyway).  I'm not really sure how his nickname "the Wee Scott" came about, but, in our circle of friends, I'm not sure anyone even knows the poor guy's real name.

The Wee Scott is a sweetheart—truly, he is—but he tends to be a little ...how shall I say it?  Self-confident?  Egotistical?  Cocky?  Essentially thinks he is God's gift to women?  That last description might encompass it.  He always seems to fall flat with dating, despite his charming little (and suspectedly exaggerated) Scottish accent, but he never seems to understand why.  Yup—one of those.

So the Wee Scott was hanging with Dolly, Rowdy, Stella, and I at our favorite bar one night when he started telling us girls about his latest blind date.  The Wee Scott was looking for a second opinion after Dolly had given him her take on the night's events (apparently, her assessment was not well received).

Therefore, you are invited to pass your own judgment on the Evalu-date session between my girls and the dating-challenged Wee Scott.  I am so sorry that this fantastic dating tale is not one of my own, but the Wee Scott's latest adventure was simply too good a story not to share.

"I just don't understand it—I thought the date went really well," the Wee Scott says to us at the bar, obviously confused.  "But now she isn't returning my calls for a second date.  What happened?"

"Give us the whole story," presses Stella.  "We'll give you the honest-to-goodness female point of view."

So the Wee Scott starts laying out the night's events: "We were set up through a mutual friend; it was what you Americans call a 'blind date.'  I decided it would be best if we met somewhere, since we do live a wee bit far away from each other, so I told her to meet me at The Cheesecake Factory at 7:30 p.m.  Nothing went wrong during dinner.  I'm dressed the part.  We're talking, eating, getting to know one another—"

"Tell them what you both ordered," Dolly interrupts, as she gives Stella, Rowdy, and I a wait-for-it look.  "Tell them what you had to drink."

The Wee Scott continues, "Well, I ordered a glass of chardonnay and the mahi-mahi.  She had water and a salad."

"Ughhhh...," all three of us groan and roll our eyes before he has barely gotten to the word water.  Dolly gives poor Wee Scott the biggest I-told-you-so-look.

"What?!?  What is wrong with that?"  the Wee Scott defensively demands, clearly astonished by our initial reactions.

Rowdy decides to be the one to enlighten him.  "Okay, first of all?  You took her to The Cheesecake Factory."

I interject, "Is there anything wrong with that though?  I mean, it is not anything fancy in this city of gourmet fine dining, but it's not that bad, is it?"

"It wouldn't be that bad," Dolly points out, "if said Cheesecake Factory was not in the middle of a mall."

"Ewww, yeah, for real.  You aren't in high school,"  Stella chimes in, wrinkling her nose.

Rowdy continues, "Word.  So you are starting out two feet in the hole.  Then, you gotta go seal the deal and order chardonnay.  Stella and DD—when a guy orders a glass of chardonnay on a date, what do you think?"

Stella and I look at each other, then back at Rowdy.  "Gay," we say in unison.

"Exactly.  Make that six feet under.  And then—she orders water.  And a salad."

"Why is that a bad sign?" the Wee Scott inquires.

"Obviously, she isn't planning on stretching this date out—she is trying to get out of there as fast as she can."

"Oh, it gets better.  He asks if she wants dessert, and she says no, so instead of asking for the check—like an intelligent guy would—he goes ahead and orders another glass of wine and the chocolate cheesecake!  So this poor girl is stuck there watching him eat dessert, too!  Oh—and tell them how she got home," Dolly says gleefully, as Stella and I struggle to stay in our seats from laughing.  Rowdy is now looking at the Wee Scott as though he's a moron.

The Wee Scott was starting to look slightly defeated—but not quite: "Now, I know there is nothing wrong with that.  Come on now!"  We have all managed to compose ourselves sufficiently and are now on the edge of our seats in anticipation.  He sighs.  "Okay, fine.  I offered to drive her home, but she said no.  See, she works for this courier service, so she was just going to have them pick her up and take her back to her house.  I'm sure she just wanted it to be more convenient for me!" he insists.

Poor, poor Wee Scott.  We all laughed, and we laughed, and we laughed... and he just sat there, stupefied, but also looking a bit amused because he definitely had no idea why it was so obvious that she would reject his attempts for a second date.  He seriously did not have a CLUE as to the fact that she clearly wasn't interested.  Go figure.  And apparently, these are the needles in my dating haystack...I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised that my dumb luck is winning out.

Lesson #4 in Post-Divorce Dating:  When your blind date would rather be couriered home than ride in a car with you, it is safe to say that a second date is probably not going to happen—so go ahead and have that second glass of chardonnay while you're at it.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

It's How You Play the Game

Single women in my city are interesting. They are a unique predator, prowling the club scene each weekend, hoping to stalk their way into the heart of any single man who makes dinner reservations at 5-star restaurants, takes private yacht ventures to tropical escapes, buys Gucci purses, and spends weekends in Venice. These women track their prey in skin-tight dresses and thong bikinis, surgically enhance their assets, wear stilettos with shorts, and have legs for days (perfectly sculpted by their own personal trainer, naturally).

These women, of course, are my competition.  In the dirty game that we call Dating, there are rules, but no referees to call the shots.  There are sidelines, but no coaches to bench you.  There are sides, but no teams.  It's every woman for herself.  And let me tell you — it can get ugly on that field.

In my post-divorce experience, the game gets even more competitive for those of us joining the players on the field after we assumed we had left the game for good.  I've realized that the number of single men who do not think of a 30+ woman as an extra piece of unwanted baggage drops considerably once you add on that said woman is divorced.

I see these game-players out on the town, and I think, how can I possibly compete?  In addition to being divorced, I suffer in comparison.  I prefer flip-flops to heels—certainly when paired with shorts.  I have never surgically enhanced anything—nor will I ever.  I don't even want a personal trainer—assuming I could afford it.  And I will absolutely, 100%, without a doubt, never be caught in a thong bikini—major cringe.

It makes me wonder why us women stab each other in the back just to be involved in a game that so many of us dread to play and classify as unenjoyable.  Why do we battle each other relentlessly just to find that special someone?  Why do we put ourselves through endless suffering just to experience something that only could be love?  The ultimate question is...if a woman decides to play the game by her own set of rules, is it still possible to win?

When I went on that fishing trip a little while back with Rowdy and her family, my dear friend's request for me to accompany her was only partially motivated by wanting me to spend time getting to know CB.  Her biggest reason for inviting me along was due to the fact that CB had invited his friend named Sketch, who then had invited his current female plaything, who in turn had invited her BFF.  Let's name these two women Paris and Kim, respectively.  After meeting them at the bar the night before, Rowdy had begged me:  "Do not make me go fishing with these two bimbos all day without you....  I will seriously throw myself off the boat if I have to listen to their nonsense all day... if I don't throw one of them overboard first!"

Now, let's be honest—Rowdy has been known to have a low tolerance for girly nonsense—but in this situation, not one person who has met these two women could have possibly said she was overreacting.

We all meet up at the dock early that morning to board the fishing boat.  Sketch and Paris arrive together and are slightly late; as to why, we don't ask, but they are looking at bit worn from the night before.  Kim has picked up CB from Rowdy's house and followed us to the dock in her car — there is no doubt that she has tagged her catch clearly.  And who can blame her?  CB is available, attractive, and accomplished.  X marks the spot.

Of course, once Kim gets out of the car and begins strutting over to the boat, I have to do a double-take when I see her.  I turn to Rowdy to raise an eyebrow at her, nodding in Kim and CB's direction.

Rowdy can't even fake discretion.  "Wait, are you serious?  Is she wearing heels on a fishing boat?" she snorts incredulously.

Now, for those of you who have never been on a deep-sea fishing boat, this ain't no cruise ship.  We are not going to be gently bobbing along in the Bay.  Even more so, it happens to be the day after a tropical storm has swept through, so the water is absolutely not going to be glassy and calm.

I'm still trying not to join Rowdy in her obvious snickering as she continues: "This chick will be lucky if she stays standing, regardless of whether or not I'm able to push her off the boat!"

I promise—we are not usually this mean-spirited.  But seriously—the combination of her string bikini, designer sunglasses, spiked heels, and shameless flirting with CB are really too much...

Too bad Kim and her stilettos end up getting seasick within 15 minutes away from the dock and she spends the rest of the day puking over the side of the boat and sleeping it off in the cabin.  Really—such a shame.

I was only able to have a conversation with CB that day because luck (or a lack of reliance on Dramamine) intervened for me.  It certainly wasn't because I bit and clawed my way to the front of the race.  I didn't do anything to sabotage another competitor, I didn't fight dirty, and I certainly didn't glam myself up.  But was I really a winner of that game?

If seasickness is meant to signify that we don't all have to play games to end up on in the winner's circle, then there may still be a gold medal for those of us who choose to wear sweatpants to Target.  Possibly, for the women who decide to play fair and honest, true to themselves and not the image they believe a man wants, losing out on a date is not really a genuine game loss.  Or maybe, it's not whether you win or lose—

Maybe it's how you play the game that matters.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

The One That Got Away

Even after a woman is married (or otherwise informally attached), it is perfectly normal for that woman to still wonder about the men of romances past.  Certain questions might occasionally cross that woman's mind:  What might have happened if I had ended up with Mr. High-School Heartthrob?  Where is Mr. College Crush today?  Or, was my true 'Mr. Right' truly Mr. Office One & Only?  Considering the current lives of these past paramours does not mean that we are stuck in the past or that we don't love the one we're with.  It does not make us cheaters; it makes us human.  For most of us, there is always that special man from our past who we label as The One That Got Away.

The difference between other women and me, the divorcée?  I can actually do something about it.

His name was Mr. Cadet.  As I was traveling far north to that frozen tundra I called college, my family was leaving my high school life behind and moving to a new state; once again I was able to call a city in the South "home."  All throughout college, each last day of April, I left my snow boots, scarf, and gloves behind and went home to my small-town sunshine.  Because it was a new place for me, I had to meet new summer friends through the wonderful world of waitressing.  This is how Mr. Cadet entered my life; he had just finished with a five-year commitment in the U.S. Army and was working as a waiter while attending a local college.

I am not quite even sure how it happened.  One day, we are working alongside each other as coworkers; the next, we are AOL instant-messaging each other at home.  One minute, he's introducing himself during our shift; the next, he's going out of his way to pass me to say hi and smile.  The two of us always volunteered to stay as the last waitstaff on the floor, challenging each other to see who could bring in the most cash in tips (and convincing the hostess to seat members of the opposite sex at tables in our respective sections to gain the advantage).  Then, we would walk out of the restaurant together, usually chatting and flirting next to our cars until long after the parking lot was empty.

For the most part, our relationship was completely platonic—a few times, it progressed to something more.  But of course, the summer would pass, I would go back to school, and the relationship would be forced to end.  However, as soon as winter was over and April appeared again, Mr. Cadet and I would once more be drawn to each other, unable to fight the chemistry between us.  But, since we knew how much it would hurt when the summer was over, we didn't talk about the future; we would never express how we felt.  Summer romances seemed to be our fate, at least for the time.

Then, as my senior year of college was looming ahead, my family told me that they would again be moving—which meant, when I traveled back north that September, I would be leaving my small town paradise and Mr. Cadet behind for good.

So I told Mr. Cadet that I was leaving.  I told him that I wouldn't be back that next summer.  I told him that I was applying to grad school, and I could pick any place in the nation to attend, any place I had a reason to go.  I waited for him to give me a reason; I waited for him to ask me to stay.  He never did.  So I left, and I didn't look back.

I do not blame him for letting me go.  He was 24, and I was only 21 when I saw Mr. Cadet for the last time.  So young, having to make big decisions—we cannot be expected to make the right one every time.  And who knows?  Maybe it was the right decision.  Maybe it was only a summer romance, and we were supposed to move on to new futures.  We might have never worked out.  However, even after all these years, when I think about the characters of my past, he has always been "the one that got away" in my love story.

A few months prior to my ex-husband dropping the D-word on me, Mr. Cadet sent me a friend request on Facebook, after almost 10 years of no contact.  Turns out, he just moved to a city only a six-hour's drive away from my current location.  We started chatting one day recently, and I finally got up the courage to ask him:

"Why did you let me go?  Why didn't you ask me to stay?  I was crazy about you—I would have stayed there with you."

He surprised me completely with his reply:

"I didn't ask because I didn't know you wanted me to.  Why didn't you ask me to go with you?  I was crazy about you too—I would have followed you wherever you went."

I truly believe that everything happens for a reason.  I know that I was meant be married, I was meant to get divorced, and I was meant to be hurt beyond belief for a reason.  So I have to wonder — was "the one that got away" meant only to be a part of my past?  Or is there a reason he has suddenly reappeared in my future?  Maybe, I'm not yet supposed to know.

But the plus side to getting divorced?  If I want to, I actually have the chance to find out.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée