Oh Loverboy

So again, it's been a while.  I know, I said it was going to be the last time I had a long break in my blogging life, but some big developments have been happening since my last post, and I can't wait to update you all about it—but not yet!  Today, I have one bad-dating story that has been on the writing block for a while.  His name is Mr. Loverboy—and you will soon see why.

Just when I thought Mr. Black Sneakers had been the nail in the online-dating coffin, I received another interesting profile from Mr. Loverboy—so why not?  I might as well give it one final try.  Can't be that bad, right?

Ha.  Whoever said I was intelligent enough to be a teacher obviously did not consider my decision-making skills when it comes to romance.  Good thing I teach English and not sex ed.

The new profile is Mr. Loverboy's, and we go through the usual eHarmony requirements—stupid questions like, "What are your three best traits?" and "What is the most adventuresome thing you have ever done?" and "What would you be doing on a typical night at home?"  I always cringe and end communication when the potential date sends me a really personal one like, "If I had a bad day, what would you do to make me feel better?"  Honestly, dude, I'm quite sure the man's dream is to hear about foot rubs and sexual favors, but let me knock you on the head with reality, bubba—no respectable girl is going to say that to a complete stranger, even if you have hit the jackpot and found a girl who is actually thinking it.

Qualities about Mr. Loverboy that I learned from online communication were few but interesting:

1. He's from South Carolina (southern gentlemen, maybe?).
2. He's in med school (wahoo!) for podiatry (eh...good enough).
3. He is 36 years old and never married (I'm gonna go with 'focused on his career'...).
4. He has a sense of humor (joking around through online means is always difficult, and he accomplished it).
5. He's well travelled—been to Ireland and very proud of his Irish heritage.
6. He is very close to his brother (loves family, check), exercises regularly (not fat, check), and has several close friends in the area (not socially inept, check).

Well, so far looking good...or so I thought.  After talking via text message and the phone, I uncover some red flags.

First, I get the following message from him:  Do you have a problem with guys with tattoos?

Okay, now don't get me wrong, I have no problem with a guy who puts some design on his arm or a symbol on his shoulder, but is this guy asking because he has his ex-girlfriend's name across his forehead?  A naked woman across his back?  Ink covering more than 50% of his body?  I start to feel a bit nervous.

Next, I get this:  I have a really good feeling about this!  You are so beautiful and so nice!

Sweet...but you haven't met me yet.  Maybe I'm pessimistic when it comes to relationships after my divorce, but I still feel like seeing each other in person is not entirely overrated.

Mr. Loverboy is giving me a bad feeling with his loverboy tendencies.  His text messages are getting pretty flirtatious—for example, when asked what I was doing, and I responded "watching a movie at home," he replied: What are u watchin?  I could hold you close if I was watching with u :)

Should I be weirded out?  Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic, but something kept me optimistic.  Maybe he is really just a NICE guy.  Romantic, even.  Would that be so strange?  There are nice, romantic, loving men out there...right?

Yikes.  My optimism really does sound like idiocy when you see it written on paper.

Date 1:  He picks me up and takes me to dinner.  He asks me out.  He makes the plans.  He picks the restaurant.  Now, maybe I'm too nice, but even despite these circumstances, I do the mock-reach to my purse and make a half-hearted offer to split the bill when it comes.  His response?

"Yeah sure!  That'd be great!"

On the first date?!?  I don't even get the first date paid meal?!?  Wow, this date must have been bad!  Inside, I'm thinking, he must not be planning on seeing me again.

Wrong.  He ninja-kisses me when we get into the car and says he would love to see me again.  I'm still being my annoyingly optimistic self, so I hesitantly agree to give it another chance, but all considering?

Strike 1.

Date 2:  Mr. Loverboy asks me out again, and this time, there is no way I'm paying.  I'm not even going to offer—so there!  Again, he picks the restaurant, and it's expensive.  Oh, well, I tell myself.  I'm not going to feel bad, I'm not going to give in...  As he noticeably wrestles over whether we should order a bottle of wine with his very loud murmurs ("...wow, $80 for wine?  Maybe we should just drink when we get back to my house..."), I get irritated and excuse myself to the bathroom to compose myself.

Okay, he's a med student...maybe he's just poor with student loans!  Stop being judgmental!  I talk myself down and head back to the table, praying that he decided on that bottle of wine because I'm definitely feeling like I need a good, strong drink....

However, while this part of the date is going badly, he is clearly trying to impress me with his little smiles across the table.  It's kind of...sweet.  I'm starting to feel a bit better—but then we get back to his place.

"Want to see my tattoo?"

Oh yeah, the tattoo.  Totally forgot about that one.  I think I manage to give a nervous nod as he takes off his shirt to reveal...

HOLY GEEZ!  There are no words.  Because I'm not looking at a tattoo...I'm looking at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  Literally.

I mean it—this was Mr. Loverboy's back, complete with naked people, and cherub angels, and clouds, and...stuff.  I am trying to keep a poker face, free of all expression.  So. Really. Trying.  All the while, Mr. Loverboy is standing there giving me proud glances over his shoulder, clearly believing my silence means that he has utterly impressed me beyond speech.
Thankfully, it is the end of the date, and I march out of there thinking that's it.  No more crazy dates.  Then Rowdy does a very un-Rowdy thing to do—she sides with Mr. Loverboy:

"Tattoos are a very personal thing.  You said that he told you he got it after his parents died...you can't judge him based on that!  It is meaningful to him, and you will find that with most people who decide to get a tattoo of that magnitude."

Well, now of course, I'm an awful person.  Judgmental.  Heartless.  Cruel.  So I did what each one of you expected me to do all along—when he called to ask me out for a third time, I said yes.  In my head, though?

Strike 2.

Date 3:  Mr. Loverboy asks me over to watch a movie = no money issues.  Great.  I love movies.  However, this movie came with a special preview attraction:

"I know that your birthday is a few days away, so I got you something that I would like you to have..."

"Oh, no!"  I quickly interrupt, "Really, you didn't have to get me anything...I mean, it's only the third date...really."

He cuts me off just as suddenly.  "No, I want you to have it.  It means a lot to me, and you mean a lot to me.  I know it has only been a short time, but I just have this really good feeling about you and me...well, close your eyes.  I want to surprise you."  

I make a few more good arguments, but I am unable to fight him off, so I finally give in and close my eyes.  Mr. Loverboy puts something tiny and metal in my hands.





"This necklace was a very special purchase that I made when I went to Ireland a few years ago.  Inside the necklace is a real four-leaf clover.  I saw it in a store, and I knew that I had to buy it and give it to someone special when the right person came along someday.  And I want you to have it..."









SIRENS!!!!!!  CLANGING BELLS!!!!!  RED FLAGS!!!!!  This time it is not my imagination, I am not being judgmental, and I am clearly being too nice!!!  It's like a promise NECKLACE!

You don't even want to know the excuses I had to make to get myself out of THIS one.  It is way too embarrassing.

Strike 3.  I was out.  And I meant it, too...no more eHarmony, no more uncomfortable dinners, no more failed attempts to find love—no more dating.

Or so I thought.

Lesson #15 in Post-Divorce Dating:  How do you call your loverboy?  Apparently, you don't; the loverboys come at you whether you like it or not.  So instead of calling your loverboy to see if he answers, save yourself from awkwardly rejecting necklaces (and implied marriage proposals), and avoid loverboy-types at all costs.  But the song was correct about one thing—love is definitely strange.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Real Men Use Emoticons

Bursley:     DD!!! My brother's friend is single! (we like him but not his previous taste in women) - and Ben would like to know if you would be at all interested in meeting him? He is a police officer, likes to go out with friends, very social, plays baseball, likes to bike ride of course and golf. He graduated from Lynn U where he played baseball. He is from MA...loves the red sox.

DD:     Are you really setting me up from 1000+ miles away?  That's love.

My old roommate and dear friend from college, Bursley, has a brother (Ben) very close in age who happens to live about an hour away from me, so when I get this text message, I am surprised at how far news of my dating dry spell had reached.

I pass along my number to Bursley so she can pass it on to her brother, who can then pass it on to his single friend (oh, the lengths I seem to go for a date).  A couple days later, I receive my first message:

Hi :)  I am the friend that Bursley's brother told you about.  How are you?

We continue to text back and forth, and, before long, my new friend has earned his name:  Officer Smiley.

Officer Smiley:     That's okay, I understand you've been busy.  Saturday sounds like a great day...I'll call you and we can make plans :)  Do you like sushi?

Officer Smiley:     Hahaha it is a little disturbing to think about eating raw food lol.  I was thinking we could go out somewhere and have a drink :)  you're down south right?

 Officer Smiley:     :)  I can't let you do that lol...besides, I've never been to your area.  One thing- I have no idea whats down there lol. what's a good place to go?

Officer Smiley:     That sounds fantastic! :)  I'm excited!  Ben has told me so much about you.

 Officer Smiley:     :)  Yeah I guess you're right.  Definitely a first for me but I'm looking forward to it.  You seem very nice :)

Count 'em...one, two, three, four, five, six smiley faces.  Okay, I don't judge.  I ask my trusted male advisers about the use of happy faces in text messages by guys to see what they think.

DD:     Need blog help - what is your response to men using excessive smiley faces in text messages?  Like every message?

Bear:     That is just stupid and weird. how old is he?

Todd:     I use them maybe once every thousand texts—with Rowdy.  And that's it.

Great Dane:     Sounds a little strange.  Trying to be cute or something.  Of course, I've been married since texting has come out, so maybe not the best to ask.

 Big D:      :-)  haha!

Determined not to write another guy off before I've given him a chance, we set up our date:  dinner at Bahama Breeze, halfway between both of our houses.

And dinner is actually nice!  Officer Smiley is definitely a very smiley type of person, but he's nice, charming, and pays for dinner...so far, no red flags.  He even insists upon walking me out to my car as we continue to chat.

"Thanks so much for dinner," I say.  "I had a really nice time.

"So did I!  I'm so glad we finally got to meet.  Bursley and Ben started talking you up as soon as I broke up with my ex, and they didn't let up!" he laughs.

Oh yeah, the ex, I think.  I remember something about that.  My curiosity gets the better of me, so I decide just to come out with it.  "Yeah, I heard from Bursley that you had recently been through a pretty bad break-up.  How long had you two been together?" I ask casually, trying not to sound like I'm prying.

He remains silent for a second and then drops the bomb.  "Ten years."

What the...?!?  Ten YEARS???!!!???  Break-ups are difficult after ten weeks, devastating after ten months, but ten years?  I can't even imagine...how long does it take to get over that?  So I ask the next burning question in my mind:  "So, um, how long ago was that break-up exactly?"

Officer Smiley begins to squirm uncomfortably.  "About...two months ago?" he responds without really looking at me, more of a question than an answer.  Like he's trying to figure out whether I'm thinking that he's actually completely out of his mind...or if he's really just that desperate to get laid again.

"Um...okay...wow.  Um, are you, like, okay?" I slowly ask, trying to keep a sympathetic face, not wanting to display the utter disbelief I feel.  I think about how it's been two years since my four-year marriage ended, and I'm only just now feeling okay.

As he opens up about his recent heartache, I hear the usual—"it had been over for a long time" and "it was for the best" and "I'm already over it."  I can't stop my mind from drifting...is it wise to involve myself with someone potentially carrying just as much baggage into the relationship as I am?  I decide not.

But if nothing else, Bursley was right about one thing—the date did have a happy ending because it made me realize that I have come a long, long way since that bad break-up called divorce.  Thank goodness I don't have to go through that again.  Poor Officer Smiley...he has a lot of growing (and possibly growing up) to do in the coming months.

Lesson #14 in Post-Divorce Dating:  How long does it take to heal a broken heart?  There is no specific standard for how long it takes to move on after a relationship ends.  Many people say it takes half the length of your relationship; therefore, beware a man who is in month two of his 5-year plan...lol...wink... ;-)

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Five Hours of Fashion Faux Pas: My Date with Mr. Black Sneakers

So I went on a date with a guy wearing black sneakers.

Yep, that's all I needed to say, right?  Black sneakers.  That's as far as I got in my story during Christmas dinner, and it was enough to have cousin almost shoot wine through her nose.

Now the black sneakers didn't look like these:

Or these...

Or even these...

(Yes, even those last ones would have been a step up.)

Until I become more stealthy at taking covert pictures on my dates, I've had to try and find via Google the best replica that I can, and the closest I've come are these:

But honestly, they might have been even worse.

Pair that up with "mom" jeans, and you have tragic.  Then cap it off with an expectation of a 40-year-old man who looks thirty-five, and a reality of a 40-year-old man who looks forty-five, and what you have left is just one really long ass date with that creepy middle-aged neighbor who lived down the street from your childhood home and who everyone thought was a pedophile.

After dinner, a hockey game, and a car ride out of the jam-packed arena parking lot (WOW, long date!), we didn't seem sorry to say good-byes.

No second date happening here.

But then I start thinking...why didn't he want a second date?!?  I'm cool...right?  Surely Mr. Black Sneakers wasn't looking at me thinking: Gosh, look at those flats, so out of style!  And who on earth picked out that shirt?! Wow, doesn't she have a friend who can tell her that hairstyle is soooo '90s...?  What if the past five hours were just as excruciating to him as they were to me?  Sadly, the thought did not even cross my mind until after I watched his car pull away from the parking lot where he had dropped me at mine.

 I did try to ignore the fashion faux pas and get to know the inner Mr. Black Sneakers during our date.   But maybe I'm too judgmental on outward appearances?  Is it wrong to size up a guy based on how they look on the outside, or is it recommended that you sit through dinner, a hockey game, and a car ride before you can veto a second date?

I conclude it was wrong of me to assume that a forty-year-old man in black sneakers would be thrilled to be out, no matter who he was a date with, but I realize that I really did try to keep an open mind throughout our date. I certainly do not want to be a shallow person looking at only inner beauty, but there is something to be said for outward appearances giving you a lot of insight into personality.  Mr. Black Sneakers and I just didn't click, appearances aside, and I believe that first impressions really do tell you a lot about a person—which presents the question:  what does my first impression say about me?

I have never really wondered what my dates think about on their way home from meeting me.  I'm so busy debating on whether or not I liked them, I forget to consider whether they liked me.  Obviously, this guy didn't.  Maybe I'm not as date-able as I think I am...

But at least I won't be the one wearing black sneakers.

Lesson #13 in Post-Divorce Dating:  Never commit to a five-hour date with a complete stranger who you met on eHarmony.  It is not shallow to promise only a drink or coffee before making any further obligations.  Also recommended?  Before the date, ask the guy to send you a full-body picture of himself in his normal attire—and holding a newspaper with the current date clearly visible.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Online Dating Hating

I am so busy that I literally don't have time to think.  As a teacher, we quickly become masterminds at hearing twelve questions simultaneously, sorting each question out in our heads like pieces of a puzzle:

Student #1:     I don't understand how to do this question!  I need help!
Student #2:     Where is the handout for the homework?
Student #3:     Can I turn my homework in late because my dog ate it last night?
Student #4:     I need a new book to read—this one is boring.
Student #5:     Why did I get an "F" on this project?!?  I worked SO hard on it!
Student #6:     Ms. DD, I need to go to the bathroom—I'm going, okay?

After years of teaching, you find the ability to fire back answers to each one, all within about fifteen seconds—because, with teenagers, that is usually all the time you have before either (1) they become irritated that you didn't answer them or (2) their attention spans run out and they completely forget the question they asked in the first place.

Ms. DD:     You—read the directions to the question; bet it will make more sense.  You—under your book, where you put it after I gave it to you TEN minutes ago.  You—no; the dog ate your homework LAST week, remember?  Try a new excuse.  You—you're boring if you think that book is.  But if you really need a new one, go to the library.  You—how long did you spend on that 2-week long project?  Two hours?  That's what I thought—try again.  And you—you set a foot outside this classroom, and I WILL beat you with this clipboard that I'm holding.  It's a good thing you're not in kindergarten, so you can hold your pee.

But lately, I find that my Jedi-like wisdom is a bit slow on the uptake—so many things are being thrown at me that my mind is too busy to lay out all the puzzle pieces and attempt to see how it all fits together.  I'm so overwhelmed with trees that I have no idea I'm even in a forest.  I am drowning a miserable death in ungraded papers, lesson plans, and test scores.  I have filled my social calendar to the max with girlfriends and dates (yes, I said dates—wowzer, maybe dating drought is over?), and I am also taking classes at night to keep my job certification.  And yet, despite my schedule being packed, I am still finding time to be lonely.

Lonely.

What an awful word.

It seems so stupid to say.  I feel as though I am throwing a big pity-party or complaining just to utter those two syllables.  I remember I used to think that "lonely" was one of the worst feelings in the world, right up there with feeling left out or guilty, but I still feel absolutely pathetic just thinking it.  Therefore, lonely has been encouraging me to jump into this online dating thing with fierce resolve to stay open-minded.

But honestly, how can one stay open-minded with some of the stuff that I have encountered?!?  I'm serious.  Don't get me wrong—I have been on a few dates where the only thing wrong with the guy was that he was just a bit uninteresting to me but overall seemed like a nice human being.  Others?  Holy dorkarama!

My online-dating conclusion—and prepare for me to completely offend some of you—is that it does NOT work when you live in a big city like I do.

I'm serious.  I hate to derail your Match.com hopes and dreams, but online dating is for meeting people when your city does not lend itself to social spots and locales that allow you to meet others.  In my big city, if you can't meet people, you are either (1) a social recluse who lives in your mother's basement and never emerges or (2) a socially-challenged individual who lacks all ability to interact with another human being, much less one of the opposite sex.

In my experiences with online dating, I have been matched with BOTH of these lovely options.  And the others, you open up their profiles and think, really?!  That's the best picture that you have of yourself?!  Omg....  (Disclaimer:  Yes, I have contemplated that I may be going to hell for being so judgmental, but I like to think that God would react the same way if he saw some of these photos....)

First, let's begin with some of the profiles I have encountered as my "perfect," ahem, match:




"I'm passionate about decovering the truth in general and designing things is what I love to do. I also love computers and PC games! Cats, rabbits, and horses are cool too! I have cat pictures..."
Okay, creepy cat guy...not sure I want to see those pictures!




"I am not looking for my son a mom but it is a two for one deal so I understand other single parents. I have never really been into just hooking up and I am not looking for that hear. I love sex as much as anyone but I want it to be with her and not just them....Just because I'm a guy does mot mean that the only thing I want to talk about is sex or other vulgar stuff."
WHAAAAAATT?!?  That's enough of that.

"I love the fall. Crisp, sunny days with a chill in the air and the smell of fall. It is also the perfect season to make my chicken chili, which I named 'Marry Me Chili' because I have yet to cook it once without receiving a marriage proposal."
Okay, so how many times have you made this chili?  Once?  Twice?  More?!? 



"If she smokes, has kids, is out of shape/overweight, or is 100% against alcohol then it probably isn't going to work. Just being honest, no need to waste our time."
Okay, buddy, have you looked the mirror?  You are looking for a supermodel, and let's be honest...it ain't happening.

"I am most passionate about taking care of my vehicles,playing video games with my nephews, going out with friends,going Hunting&Fishing when I get the chance to and most of all my music I love listing to my music I don't know what it is about music but just jumping in my pickup truck & rolling down the windows a cranking the music up and going for a nice country drive just takes me to my "Happy Place"!!!"
My happy place includes using punctuation.  Just sayin.




"I am always on the computer or the iPad or iPhone. I live alone and work from my home. So it's either work or play. I do have the TV on as well."
Are you sure you don't live with your mom?  I mean, no one is gonna come out and just admit it, right?  That statement right there was sure to be as close as I'm gonna get....





"Even my ex's look me up so i must do something right or i am choosing really crazy women."
I'm gonna go with the latter...you said it, not me.

And, oh, just wait!  I haven't even gotten to the ones I have been on dates with....  Until next time, I remain—

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

How to Lose a Guy in Ten Ways

My dear friend Bear finally convinced me to try online dating, and surprisingly, it has provided a unforeseen benefit:  getting the male perspective on dating!  I've been polling the guys I meet and asking about the what-not-to-do's that women most often fail to avoid.

Out of all the answers I received about horrible dating stories, there were ten front-runners that stood out among the others.  While some might be hard to believe, I assure you:  all of these stories are TRUE and UNEMBELLISHED (if you can believe that after you read these atrocities).  I call it "How to Lose a Guy in Ten Ways."  Or—all the things not to do while on a date with a guy.  Enjoy!

1. Never say to a guy, "You're not going to break my heart, are you?"  Especially not several times.  On the third date.  While having sex.
2. Never go on a first date and bring up controversial subjects that include informing your date about your recent abortion—with vivid details.  Eww.
3. Never go on a date with someone who speaks English when you clearly don't.  Your date will spend the entire time not really sure if you understand what he is saying.
4. Never continuously message someone through the online dating site without receiving a response, then send another message through to another dating site, then go back to original dating site and try again—this time with a new profile name and picture but the same message.  It will not work.  Give it up.
5. Never arrive late to a first date...especially not when the reason for your lateness involves circling around the restaurant parking lot for ten minutes and then refusing to get out of the car because you thought you saw your ex standing by the door of the restaurant.
6. Never bring your parents to the second date, then allow your parents to drink too much, which then causes your parents to start arguing and yelling with each other in the middle of the bowling alley so much that your mom trips and falls into a garbage can and you all get kicked out.  It will definitely be a deal-breaker.
7. Never go on a blind date to a busy restaurant and very loudly proclaim that you want to have more kids, but you don't want them from a man, but that you plan on going to a sperm bank.  It might be awkward.
8. Never seem more concerned with making plans for after dinner than you are with having dinner—particularly if making plans involves taking phone calls during the meal from other guys.
9. Never ask a guy to marry you on the second date ... while sober and serious ... especially right after having sex with him.
10. Never go on a first date when you are tired—you really can never be too careful.  You wouldn't want to fall asleep at dinner with your head on the table only five minutes after the meal has been served, so much so that your date cannot wake you up, because then it will require him to practically carry you to the car and then into your house (which you could barely direct them to), all while you are pretty much passed out.  It will be very embarassing the next day—particularly when you have to see this person at work.

More of my own online dating stories to come...stay tuned!

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

High-School Hangouts & High-Fives (or "My Life is a Seinfeld Episode")

God has a sense of humor.  Or maybe there really is such a thing as karma.  It would figure that my first date following the break-up with Mr. Songwriter would start off like this.  In discussing with my blind date where to meet, I replied, "The time you suggested works great.  As for location, I'm game for anything—I'll leave it up to you!"  And wouldn't ya know, after incessantly making fun of bad dates, especially for callously teasing the Wee Scott about his dating techniques, where does my blind date suggest we go?

The Cheesecake Factory at the mall.

Of course.

How exactly does one dress for a date at the mall?  On a normal dinner date, a semi-dressy, semi-casual dress works just fine, but I feel like a complete toolbag showing up in my dress and heels to go to the MALL.  And as Rowdy commented to me (in between her drops of the phone from laughing so hard), what if the date goes well?  What do you do then?  "Do you hold hands as you stroll through The Gap?"

Yup, that's what I get.  Mom kept warning me that I shouldn't make fun of people on a public forum.  (No, really—she did.)

So as I stand next to a fountain spitting water amongst stone squirrels and gnome-looking things, amidst children running around like screaming hyenas and scantily-dressed tweens carrying bags from Hollister, I wait for my date:  Mr. Mall.

Whoah...  Maybe I should call him Mr. Tall? 

As he approaches (late—a man after my own heart), I am already looking up to him.  I mean, literally, he's got to be 6'4" at least!  He has to bend down in order to greet me with a hug and then takes charge, ushering us quickly into the restaurant.

We take two seats at the bar while we wait for a table, and I glance at the two guys sitting next to Mr. Mall.  No, I am not checking out other men on my date (admit, the one was very cute, and he did start talking to me when my date went to the bathroom, but that's beside the point...).  These two men who are holding down the bar happen to be in my line of sight the entire time; so, while Mr. Mall and I exchange the awkward kind of small talk that can only come from a pair who has obviously never met before, I am watching these guys snicker into their beers as they try not to look as though they are eavesdropping.  Which they are—and they know I know they are watching.  I'm sure my embarrassment is probably upping the "yuk" factor, so these clowns are having a ball.

Once we are seated at a table, dinner goes fairly normally.  That is, until the high-fives start.

Have you ever seen that episode of Seinfeld where Puddy won't stop high-fiving Jerry?  The one where Jerry has to keep going along with it, even though he feels like a moron, because once he finally puts a stop to it, Jerry knows the car deal is off?  If not, watch the first 35 seconds of the clip below, and you'll see what I'm talking about.

With Mr. Mall, I receive high-fives across the dinner table for the following:

1. Playing soccer in high school ("Cool!  I played soccer too!  High-five!").
2. Not doing drugs ("You're so cool...high-five!").
3. Drinking coffee ("I love coffee!  High-five!  Coffee's the best.").
4. Saying something—I totally forget now, it was that unmeaningful—that he thought was very astute.  And I'm sure I've forgotten at least one high-five in this list.  Sigh.

I guess it could be worse—he could have taken me to Arby's.  I am also pretty thankful that the bar clowns did not witness the whole high-fiving experience.  I'm not sure my straight face would have lasted through dinner.

Just a day in my life as an episode of Seinfeld.  At least I didn't need my just-in-case-of-an-emergency letter:

Conversation between DD, Chanel, Mamasita, Rowdy, Dolly, and Stella: 

DD:     Just in case I am never to be seen again, consider this my track-the-bastard-down-and-kill-him letter...or at least a good laugh.  Tonight, I'm going on a date with a guy named Mr. Mall at 7 p.m.  at the Cheesecake Factory.  I don't know his address, but his phone number is 555-123-1234.   All other descriptive info (hair color, tattoos, bad pick-up lines commonly used) will be found out and texted over the course of the night.   If it is anytime after midnight on this same day, please send police, search parties, and ambulances to find me.  In the event that you cannot find me, just make sure my stuff doesn't go to people I hate.  And hug my parents for me.  Thanks. 

Chanel:     Good luck.  I will call you at exactly a midnight if I do not hear from you sooner.  (And then I will call Rowdy.  And then we will drive to the mall to find you.)

Rowdy:     OH MY GOD.  Who else wants to go to dinner at the Cheesecake Factory tonight and watch the train wreck happen?

Mamasita:     If I didn't already have a dinner thing with Big D, I'll ditch the baby with him and go! HOLY SHIZA!  PLEASE keep me posted via text!

DD:     I hate you all.  Is Chanel the only one who cares about whether I might DIE because this guy is a rapist, or a freak, or molests baby kittens in his spare time???!!!???

Dolly:     Of course we care. That's why we all want to show up. For your protection.  And btw, if I weren't out of town right now, I would totally be there.

Stella:     Maybe we could video it and show it as an elearning for bad dating.

Lesson #12 in Post-Divorce Dating:   Blind dates are like a box of chocolates; you never know what you're gonna get.  However, the one piece of advice that always applies?  Never disclose the location of a blind date to your friends unless you want company—or a complimentary home video commemorating the occassion.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

The Day the Music Died

I've been trying to write this post for a few weeks now, but it has been a difficult one to write—mostly because I didn't want to talk to anyone about it.  I knew how most would listen to my news, analyze it, and respond: "You are feeling [insert what they think I'm feeling] because [insert their reasoning]."  I get it—the people who love me are always trying to protect me from ever feeling hurt again.

But I don't want to hear an analysis of my feelings from anyone right now.  I'm not even sure what these emotions are, and shouldn't I be the one who knows best on that subject?  My feelings are complicated, just not that easy to understand or to share.

But then I got to thinking—letting out thoughts and feelings is the point of a blog.  Isn't it so I can write to the unknown cyberspace my deepest, personal feelings in hopes that someone out there can relate with me and find what I say useful?  Gosh, I sure hope so.  Otherwise, what would be the point of all this?

So while this might be waaaaaay more personal than I feel like revealing, this blog entry is for everyone out there who has ever been hurt by a relationship—and who needs the strength to overcome it.

It all started a few weeks ago when finally I made a decision.  You see, someone who has been a big part of my life lately left town at the beginning of summer.  With him gone until August, I figured that I could take the time to decipher my feelings for him, but first, I would enjoy time for me.  I needed to take time to smell the roses, to bask in the sunshine, to enjoy the music—

But then I paused to listen...and realized that the tune had stopped.  The music had died.  The silence was empty, and the melody I had been hearing for the past few months seemed awkwardly absent.  I missed it, and I couldn't wait until it was back in my life—surely I wasn't that dumb to dismiss a sign like that!

So I stopped analyzing and stopped thinking and just decided to go with my heart.  My heart didn't know much—let's face it, it never does—but I was certain of what made me happy right now, and I decided to throw logic and analysis out the window, to throw away my fears about the future, and to open my heart to potential love.

I was too late.


Dearest Mr. Songwriter,

I know you probably won't get this until tomorrow, but I wanted to say something that I wasn't able to get out over the phone.  I am very sad that things didn't work out, and I take full responsibility for it.  I knew there would come a time when it just became too hard for you to stay in love with me while constantly being pushed away.  I knew that there would come a time when you just had to walk away from me.  All this time, I knew it was a risk, but I really didn't have a choice—I couldn't do things any other way.  I wish I could have gotten myself together sooner, but I knew that I did the best I could under the circumstances.  I know I'm too late.  And right now I am probably still not totally together and, who knows, could even back-track from where I am now, so I guess you are right—it was just not meant to be for us.  You deserve someone who is more like you, who is ready for you right now, and who is not going to push you away from them for as long as I did.

I know that, so far, this e-mail is all stuff you know.  But here's what you don't know—you will always be very, very special to me.  I cannot even tell you what you have meant to me during these past ten months.  Your compassion has helped me outwardly deal with a lot of feelings and emotions that I kept bottled up around other people since my divorce.  Your patience has helped me actually move toward a point of healing and prepared me so much more for any future relationship that I may or may not have.  Your humorous and fun spirit has been a rope to pull me through some really rough, sad times.  Your music and songwriting have been inspiring to me and will stick with me for the rest of my life.  Your trustworthiness and honesty have helped me believe that I might be able to get past the fear of betrayal someday.  And your love has been so precious to me because you made me feel as though I was actually someone worth loving again, and words cannot even express to you how much I needed that at exactly the time you gave it to me.

So please don't feel guilty about deciding that you no longer wanted this relationship, or whatever it really was.  Please don't think that you caused me any undeserved pain—I know you never intended to hurt me at all, but it was only a matter of time before I had to face hurt of some kind.  It was not your job to protect me from that.  Sometimes people come into our lives for a reason, but they are not always meant to stay forever.  I think we both helped each other in some way or another, and now the time has come for us to go down our separate paths, and that's okay.  I know you are going to find someone absolutely perfect for you, who you adore beyond measure, and who loves you more than you can even imagine.  I don't regret a single minute of our relationship because I know that I am coming out of it with so much more than what I walked into it with.

So thank you, Mr. Songwriter, for everything.  I love you for who you are and for all that you are to me.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

To Online Date, or Not to Online Date...

At approximately 2:30 a.m. the other day, I received the following message on Facebook:

"Love is not about finding the right person, but creating a right relationship. It's not about how much love you have in the beginning but how much love you build till the end.. My name is paul martins.... I see your picture and i willl love to know you better ... i am single and i looking for a friend or more meaningful relationship that will leads to marriage.. i need a woman to grow old with .. hope to hear from you soon.. add me on yahoo messenger mrpaulmatins@yahoo.com i am always online there too..."

Did I mention that I have absolutely no idea who this is? 

It is truly unbelievable the lengths that people will now go for love.  Our society has gone as far as spam-dating:  sending out mass messages to random groups of people in hopes that one of those messages will reach a future Mr./Mrs. Right.

Pathetic?  Simply Genius?  I haven't yet decided, but one thing is for certain—most of our society is agressively determined to find "true love". . . or maybe just to find someone for those oh-so-lonely nights.

Whichever.

When I got married, I didn't feel any pressure to "have" someone.  I was twenty-five years old at the time, so most of my friends were still single.  No husband, no kids—no problem.  I got married because I wanted to get married to the person who asked me.  And because we didn't think there was any reason for us to wait.

Now that I am post-divorce, I realize that there does come a time when it becomes difficult being single and living in a "married" world.  All my close friends are married.  Most have kids.  When I log into Facebook, I am bombarded with pictures and status updates of weddings, honeymoons, anniversaries, babies, second babies, and the like.  (I shamefully admit that sometimes I even scroll through the list of "People You May Know," halfway hoping to see some old acquaintance looking sorrowfully unattached.  You know, misery loves company...and a dateable old flame.)  I am met only with profile pictures of happy pairs, smiling and hugging, looking into each other's eyes with adoration.

And so, recently, I have emerged from the cloud of intentional solitude, the joyousness of "no strings," the elation of feeling free as a bird, and instead...felt alone.

Don't get me wrong—this "alone" feeling is GREAT.  Fantastic, even.  Because if I am actually starting to feel sadness at being alone instead of being hell-bent on celebrating my independence like it's a freaking holiday, then maybe I am finally ready to be in a relationship again.

Maybe.  But still, that's healing, right? :)

Now, instead of the "to date, or not to date" question, the new question is how do I find someone to date?  If you have noticed, my bad-luck dating stories have been fewer and farther between lately.  After being set up by practically every single one of my friends and having skulked around the local night scene on several entertaining occassions, I am running out of options for meeting new (normal) people in my city (emphasis on the word normal, if you please...).

And then, because this is the twenty-first century, and due to the fact that I am getting spam-dating FB messages, I am once again reminded of the newest trend in single living:  online dating.

Now I have always been completely against online dating—at least as far as it applied to me.  Sure, I have tons of friends who met their soul mates on Match.com, E-Harmony, Christian Mingle, or J-Date; they went on several first dates, found the love of their lives, were married within a couple years, and all lived happily ever after.  My life, however, has never really followed that fairy-tale plot line, so I'm not incredibly optimistic about allowing the internet gods to control the fate of my love life.

I have had only one experience in online dating, and that story takes us back to the summer before my freshman year of college.  Cue the flashback music...now!

During the summer before I started college, America Online was the country's preferred mode of online communication.  Everyone who was anyone had an AOL screen name and "chatted" with friends, as well as random people.  There was a way for users to search profiles for various information in those profiles, so I had random people chatting with me frequently.  As soon as I was accepted to college, I listed in my profile the name of the college, so, at once, I started to receive chat messages from other incoming students who had "found" me by searching for that school online.

One of random messages came from a guy who was also going to be a freshman that fall.  Let's call him Goofy because I swear that's exactly how I remember him looking—yup, absolutely goofy, but not of the sweet, endearing sort.  Goofy fell more into the creepy sort.

Being the intelligent, street-smart girl that I was at eighteen, I ended up meeting the guy for a date.  He asked me to the movies once we had both arrived at college in September.  First of all, I had to borrow a car and pick him up—though he asked me out, he apparently thought that I would find it terribly convenient to ask one of the girls in my dorm—who I had known for about two weeks, mind you—if I could borrow their car.  Classy of me, I know.  I guess I figured, at least I had a way home should something go terribly wrong.

So, I'm sitting there in the movie thinking, what am I doing on a date with this guy?!?  Not only was he really goofy looking, there was definitely something weird about the way he kept looking at me.  And geez, he did the whole stretch-to-put-your-arm-around-the-girl move.  I mean, really?  I did what any girl would do in such a situation—sat as far away from him as possible, crossed my legs away from him, and leaned forward a bit to show that I definitely did not want his arm around me.  However, Goofy was not too bright.  Right in the middle of the scene in Pleasantville where Toby Maguire's mom turns to color, Goofy leans forward, turns toward me, and starts coming in for the kiss...gross.  After ducking under his arm and sitting the rest of the movie in uncomfortable silence, I vowed that my excursions into online dating had met their disgusting end.

And if that memory not enough to scare me in the other direction, I have Bear's story about the date he met online who gave him full description of her recent abortion—it makes for great dinner-table talk on the first date, let me assure you.

In spite of all the online-dating horror stories, I know that it has proven to be useful for many people.  Maybe it's worth a shot?  If nothing else, maybe I will get some entertaining stories out of it?

Thus, to online date, or not to online date?  That is the question...now, it's time for your answer!

Should DD try online dating?

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

How to Think Outside the Box

Recently, I had a revelation.  A strangely long-awaited one, I think.  My revelation seems oh-so-obvious, even to me, but I honestly found it very perspective-changing once it happened.  But here...let me start at the beginning.

I've been seeing Mr. Songwriter now for a few months (click to remember the first and second dates).  Though I claim it is "not serious," it most certainly is on many levels.  I mean, honestly—I've been casually "dating" him for over six months, been his date to a friend's wedding, taken him out to be judged—ehem, I mean, to meet my friends, and spent evenings with his entire family, including a brother living in D.C.  He's even slipped up and introduced me as that horribly-feared word girlfriend, and I almost didn't want to correct him (almost being the operative word there).

So while I realize that I am vibing out the kind of crazy that is usually reserved for the institutionalized with my pathetic attempts to assert the "it's-not-serious" excuse, I find myself still holding back from admitting to commitment.  I absolutely stand strong in my refusal to attach any labels to this...relationship, for fear that a label might send me running in the opposite direction from this very kind and patient, very handsome and honest, very absolutely-adores-me man.  So, I desperately grab hold of my "I'm still single" mantra and stubbornly hug it to my chest in defiance of the fact that I have a...boyfriend.

Oh crapola, did I just say that word out loud?  Uggggghhhhh...  Give me a second to get my stuff together here...

Whew.

 Okay.


I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking that maybe this whole crazy-institution comment isn't that far off.  And up until recently, I would have agreed with you.  It seems like absolute insanity that I would NOT want to be seriously dating and committed to Mr. Songwriter.  I have no good reasons.  My friends Mamasita and Chanel think I have lost my mind, and, at every chance she gets, Mamasita very appropriately calls me out on my ridiculous behavior:  "How could you seriously not want to call Mr. Songwriter your boyfriend?  He's hot, sexy, intelligent, caring, kind, and did I mention HOT?!?  If you don't want to call him your boyfriend, I will!!!"

Bottom-line:  I desperately need to get over my commitment phobia.  I know this.  And I've been hating myself for that.  But for some strange reason, I just haven't been able to do it.

That is—until my revelation.

It all started when my sister Steve was visiting.  I took her out with Mr. Songwriter so that she could assess the situation, and so that I could get some unbiased, honest, sisterly feedback.  Afterwards, we were talking about Mr. Songwriter's future potential, and Steve said something that really made me think:

"Okay, so he is great...what is your problem?  Not only does he adore you, he took an interest in getting to know me—and I don't think that was only because of you, I think it was honestly because he is just that great of a guy!  He was interesting in talking to me, not just kissing up to me or trying to impress me because I'm your sister or because I will break him into tiny pieces and then spit on those pieces if he sucks.  Why are you still holding back?  So he's not your type—what is he really missing that you are looking for in a guy?"

Huh.  Good question.  What was Mr. Songwriter missing?  When I drew up my image of the "perfect" man, what standards was I setting?

Attractive and affectionate?  Check.

Honest and trustworthy?  Check.

Good sense of humor?  Check.

Kind and caring?  Check.

Family values and desire for one?  Check.

Confident and adventurous?  Check.

Aren't these all of the important things?  So why was I still holding back?

I went to Mamasita, my rational advisor who has no agenda, despite the fact that Mr. Songwriter is a great friend of hers and Big D's (and this is one of the many reasons I love her), and our conversation went something like this:

DD:     I really like Mr. Songwriter, but I feel as though I can't trust how I feel.  I'm just not sure he's right for me.

Mamasita:     That's because he is not the typical guy you like or date.  Because no offense, my love...you tend to go for the douchebags.

DD:     I KNOW!  I totally do!  Why is that?

Mamasita:      Because you tend to flock to what is familiar—whether it is right for you or not.  You need to branch out and consider someone who is not what you imagine your type to be...and I'm not just telling you to go for Songwriter.  You just need to stop shutting your mind off to the idea of someone like him.  I love you, but it's time—move on from your ex and adventure outside the box of your comfort zone.

I don't know if it was Steve's honest question or Mamasita's wise words, or whether it was just the mental inventory that I took of Mr. Songwriter's good qualities, but I suddenly had a revelation that I needed to change the way I approached my dating life.  I needed to learn how to think outside the box.

The truth:  I put my dating life in a box.  I think I need to be with a certain type of person.  I look for the tall, handsome, financially-successful, ridiculously charming, confident, walks-into-a-room-like-he-owns it type.  I am stuck on the idea that I belong with someone who exudes ambition from his fancy business suits like a frat boy sweats beer from his pores.  I look for the knight-in-shining-armor who will come galloping in on his white horse and sweep me off my feet with his charming stories of our white-picket fence futures.  My future partner must fit in the box that I have drawn around the qualities that I am supposed to have because...

Why?

Because this box person is right for me?  Because a guitar-playing, tattooed, liberal, 5'10" teacher who adores me (and I very much feel the same way about) and endearingly lacks any form of game isn't?

It didn't make sense.  Mr. Songwriter may not be tall, but he's the perfect height to put his hand against my face and kiss me with more love and sweetness than anyone ever has.  He may not be swimming in dollar bills, but he will make a special trip to the grocery store after he hears me complaining that I forgot to buy bread.  He may not have a white horse, but he will tell me "I barely had to even straighten your car out to fix it, you did the hard part," after I get fuming mad and stubborn trying to parallel park my car.  He may not be dripping in charm, but he tells me I am beautiful every day in a way that actually makes me believe it.

But I think Bear's take on the Box Theory really says it best:

Bear:    You're asking me why you only date losers? Because that's what you have always told yourself? Because you set these pointless rules for yourself?

DD:     But why do I do that?!?

Bear:     Because you're crazy?  I don't know what to tell you...

DD:     I am crazy.  There should be no box.  I need to get rid of the stupid, idiotic no-good box!

Bear:     Okay, good!  Forget the box!  The box is dumb!  Are u done being crazy now?  Can we please go to lunch now and have a normal conversation?

Yes, Bear.  I think that, just maybe, I finally can.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Worth Remembering

Recently, my students have taken over my life.  I live, eat, breathe, and sleep my job.  The paper grading never seems to end, the lessons always need to be planned, and the students never stop walking through my classroom door looking for recommendation letters, help on assignments, or somewhere to hide while they are secretly skipping class.  I also must have the word "Sucker" stamped on my forehead because I always seem to get roped into teaching after-school classes and taking on extra responsibilities—which is my long-winded way of saying, sorry for the last two months without blog updates!

I will admit that I pour way more than necessary into my teaching.  There are those teachers who simply work between the required hours of 7:00 A.M. and 2:30 P.M.  They are the ones who hit the parking lot before the school buses have even pulled away from the curb.

But I don't want to be just any other teacher or to teach just any other class that they will take during their educational careers.  I want to be instrumental in molding my students as young adults.  I want my class to show them something they never saw before and give them self-confidence that they never had before.  I want my students to leave my classroom having gained something—anything—that they will use later in their lives.

I want to be worth remembering to them.

This desire to be worth remembering led me to thinking:  how does one achieve this in dating?  Out of all of the people who we meet during our lifetimes, how many do we remember meeting?  Out of those, how many will we welcome into our lives for a time, and how many will we walk away from already forgetting their name?  And if it is true that we will encounter millions-upon-millions, meet thousands-upon-thousands, and remember significantly many less, how many times do we walk by someone who we could, with time, grow to love forever?  How often do we meet a person who could fit our personalities completely, but we never realize it from only an introduction?

How do we know which encounters are the ones worth remembering—and which ones we can quickly forget?

Right after college, my friend Erica was dating this truly perfect guy.  He was brilliant, funny, sweet, honest, and absolutely gorgeous.  Her friends loved him, her parents loved him, and their spark was hotter than hot.  She adored him, and he adored her right back; they both felt incredibly blessed to have found each other.  But when her guy started shopping for engagement rings, Erica felt a small flutter in her stomach that didn't translate into butterflies of excitement.  It wasn't doing cartwheels, but the feeling was significant enough to worry her, so Erica started asking all her married friends, "How did you know?  How did you know when it was right?"

When Erica called me to tell me that she had broken it off with the wonderful guy, I was astounded.  How could she give up someone so great?  Did she think that the world was just full of wonderful men?!?  Had she completely lost her mind?  But Erica told me something then that I took to heart and never forgot:

"DD, I know what I did was right.  It was hard, it hurt, and it was horrible, but when I started asking my married friends how they knew it was right before they got married, they all told me the same thing:  you just know.  Every single one of them, all ages, male and female, different personalities, different marriages—you just know when it's right.  I just didn't know.  So I'll wait until I do."

Erica walked away and found someone even more perfect for her a few years later, and she claims that she just knew right off the bat.  I was dubious of her theory at the time, but when I married my ex-husband, I was quickly 100% sure in my decision; there was no part of me that doubted.  I just knew.

But do we always know from the start?  Is the "you just know" philosophy true for every relationship?  I'm starting to have my doubts.  If it were true, then how do we explain the friends who become lovers, who then become soul mates?  And where do we draw the line?  If the person I chatted with in the elevator today was my true love, was I supposed to "know" after the seven-floor ride?

It sounds a bit silly, right?  But I do think that sometimes we at least know right away whether a person is worth remembering.  The question then becomes—do we always?  Maybe it is possible to be completely unaware when we are introduced someone special...or maybe there will be that small little flutter that will inform our subconscious memory, and our paths will find their way to each other again.


A few weeks ago, I went out with a few of my coworkers.  Our path of Friday-night fun led us to a local bar—the same bar where I met Mr. DJ in December (click here to recall that post).  I glanced his way and remembered him at once (and, I might add, he was even cuter than my memory served).  As the night progressed, I grew more and more certain that the DJ desperately needed my music-playing advice.

"I think I should go tell him this song stinks.  You agree that it really stinks, right?  Those people on the dance floor are only dancing out of pity for this horrible, stinky, no-good song.  I mean, it is my duty as a local to inform this DJ that no one at The Bar likes this song...right?" I claim resolutely to my coworker.

My coworker just laughs at my pathetic attempt at justification.  "Of course it is... You have to go talk to him.  You do not have a choice—like you said, it is your duty," she encourages, as I nod my head very seriously in agreement.

With her blessing, I march through the pity-dancers to the DJ's booth.  As I get closer, I start to wonder...should I tell him that we met a few months ago?  I mean, I am certain that he won't remember me—it is April, and that meeting was in December.  And he never called.  There is no way.

I decide not to say anything—he probably meets dozens of girls every night, has five-minute conversations, and then forgets they exist.  Why would I be the one he remembered?

I approach with a smile.  Mr. DJ smiles back.  I slyly saunter up closer so that he can hear me in spite of the loud music, but before I can say anything, he begins to speak:

"Hey, I remember you!  I'm so sorry that I forget your name, but I remember you—you're a teacher, right?  You were here a few months ago, and we talked...."

Lesson #11 in Post-Divorce Dating:  Never underestimate your impact on others.  Never doubt your own worth.  When a person meets you but later doesn't call, it doesn't mean that you aren't important.  It doesn't mean you should feel defeated or sad.  Simply smile to yourself and trust:  you will never know for sure just how many people think that you are someone who is worth remembering.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

The Five Stages of Divorce

Someone once told me that it takes a full year before you can really move past the grief and begin to heal after a person you loved has died.  I had always believed that there was truth in this statement, but I never fully understood its wisdom until I experienced the loss of someone who had inhabited a significant presence in my daily life, someone I thought I could not go on living without.  In my case, it might not have been a literal death of a person, but it was still a death—the death of a relationship—and I am convinced that the same principles apply.

Therefore, my "new year" celebration happened a bit later than everyone else's this year.  Instead of counting down the clock to midnight on December 31st, my countdown occurred a few weeks later when I reached that bitter anniversary of the day my ex-husband crushed my heart.  I have experienced, and lived through, an entire year of events: birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, occassions, and seasons.  And, if I am correct in my predictions, my path only goes uphill from here.

Not that the path has been only downhill until now—it definitely hasn't.  There have certainly been steep mountains to climb, deep valleys to cross, and clouds that looked so dark I felt as though I'd never again see the sun.  But, on the other hand, there have also been clear blue skies to admire, loved ones to hug, and days I laughed so hard I felt as though sadness had died a horribly gruesome death at the feet of happiness.

Life has been good—and not because divorce just feels oh-so-wonderful, but because I have learned to be content no matter what my circumstances and to realize that I am so much happier with those circumstances now than I was just a little over a year ago.

And who knows?  I just might have reached the final stage of grieving—acceptance.  But it certainly didn't start out that way for me a year ago...


The Denial Stage — January 2010:   "I'm actually okay.  I'm really fine.  Really."  This became my motto once the shock had worn off after that first week.  My sister, Steve, had a front row seat for the horrifying opening scenes of the dramatic production, as she happened to be visiting me from out-of-town when my ex-husband dropped the "D-word" on me.  For the first six weeks, I was completely swept up in finding a new apartment, securing a second job, disclosing to friends, establishing new credit accounts—creating a new life.  Everything had changed, but I didn't have time to look at the changes.  I couldn't look at the changes; I had to keep busy.

Friends started getting concerned by my nonchalance toward the whole episode.  "You have to deal with it at some point," Chanel would say to me.  "It's not normal not to deal with it.  You should be upset; it's okay!"

But Chanel didn't get it.  Neither did Rugrat, or Mamasita, or Stella, or Faith, or my parents, or anyone else who tried to get me to deal with it.  Heck, I didn't even get it.  All I absolutely knew for certain was that I wasn't trying to be tough, I wasn't trying to suck it up because that was the brave thing to do—I was not dealing with it because I simply couldn't deal with it.  Simple as that.

Welcome to the definition of "Denial."  Drive safely, and enjoy your stay.


The Anger Stage — April 2010:   At the beginning of April, my Aunt Glitz came for a visit.  Aunt Glitz is also going through a divorce, so we spent the week commiserating on a beach together.  For the first time in months, I had someone who didn't tell me "it's going to be okay," or "you are better off," or the worst one, "Cheer up! It could be worse!"  For some reason, being around someone who actually truly knew what I was going through was the doorway into the next stage.

Except my "anger" was not quite the slashing-tires, bombing-houses, sabotaging-reputations type.  Instead, it was crying into my pillow every night, screaming in pain, how could he do this to me?!?  I never let anyone see it, and I tried not to talk about it as much as possible.  I knew that my friends would have told me that it was normal, but there was still a part of me that felt I shouldn't still be crying after almost six months had passed.  Suffering in silence seemed like something I almost deserved, something that I needed to do.  On the outside, I went through my days, laughing and happy for the most part, and truly being happy with my life.

Then night would come, and the anger demons would feed on my broken heart, ripping pieces off with jagged teeth, and chewing with a force that was almost too much to bear.


The Bargaining Stage — June 2010:   Though I didn't think the "anger" would end, it did; however, the stage which followed was not much better, though much shorter-lived.  I went through a period of time where I blamed myself with a strange intensity, as if it were completely my fault that my marriage had ended.  Had I been too needy?  Too nit-picky?  Too restraining?  Maybe I should have asked for less, cared more, and not forced him to be affectionate, romantic, or intimate in the details of his life with me.  Maybe then it wouldn't have ended...

There were days that I just wanted to go back to my old life.  I wanted the old husband, the one who I had fallen in love with, the one who had desperately loved me.  I cried at night, begging God to allow me to go back, pleading and promising to do anything just to have my old happiness, the old me.  I wished for Superman to fly backwards around the Earth, reverse the gravitational pull of the Sun, and take me back in time to when I knew what my future held.  I dreamed of Doc Brown throwing me in his time machine and sending me back to the place where I had been loved.  A place where I felt safe.  A place I knew.

But deep down, I knew that there was no going back.  There was no Superman, and a movie could not make a time machine really exist.  I wouldn't have wanted to go back anyway—not really.  As Abraham Lincoln said, "I hope to stand firm enough to not go backward."  And as Dad told me, "Nothing good ever came of driving while looking only in your rear-view mirror."

The trouble was: I just didn't recognize the road ahead.


The Depression Stage — July 2010:   I sat on the divorce proceedings for a long time; I guess I just couldn't face making the whole thing real.  Finally, on June 30th, I went to court and told a judge that my marriage was "irretrievably broken."  The judge actually looked up from his papers to regard me with sympathy, the first time he had looked at a petitioner all morning, because I could barely get out the words that I was required by law to say.  Then I cried the entire train ride back to work.

A few weeks later, six months since I had left our home, I found out my ex-husband had cheated on me.  To this day, I cannot actually confirm the specifics of it, but my source was reliable enough to trust on the details I did receive.  I didn't want to know the rest.

The day after I found out, I could barely get out of bed.  It was bad enough that he had wanted a divorce because he didn't want to be married, just didn't want to be with anyone.  It was far worse that he had just not wanted to be with me.

But I couldn't stay depressed too long; by this point, I had seen sparks of light, stars of hope, and dreams of happiness.  I had friends who loved me, family who would always have my back, and a job that I adored even on my worst day.  Who can sink in sorrow with ropes like those to pull you out?


Stage Five — Present Day:   Since the beginning, I always knew that my ex-husband's words had brought forth sorrow, hurt, anger, guilt, and despair—but that there had also been hope.  After living for almost two years while watching the husband I once knew shift in form, leading me down a road that, to me, looked dark and gloomy, I was almost relieved.  When he had asked me to leave, my ex-husband had set off a bomb, one that blew away my access to his path, but one that had also shaken free the dirt and bushes so that I could see the bright sunshine and feel the warm breeze blowing from the opposite direction—and I could finally see another road was there, had always been there.  And this one looked more like the one I had always hoped for in my future.  I just would be traveling down it alone.

But, you know what?  I've been traveling that road for over a year now, and it has been good.  And it will be good.  There may be bumps, there may be storms, and there may be roadblocks along the way, but there will also be sunshine and daisies and victories.

Reaching the stage of acceptance?  While it is the last step on my journey through divorce grief, that victory is just the first of many to come.


Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

I Triple-Dog-Dare You

I used to pride myself on being a very talented flirt.  I could seductively smile, coyly toss my hair, and bat sultry eyes with the best of 'em.  But that was almost ten years ago—I do not really know if I still possess this above-average ability.  Perhaps the skill is something that one gradually forsakes without practice like playing the piano or speaking French.  If you don't use it, you lose it—isn't that the rule?

Flirting aside, one aspect of my personality which has always remained consistent, even without use or practice, and despite my increasing wisdom and maturity, is the fact that I absolutely refuse to be told that I cannot, will not, or would never dare to do something.  In fact, if a certain individual wants to ensure that something will get done by me, tell me that I can't do it, and, by golly, it will get done so fast you'd think my dog's life depended on it.  Every time I think that I have outgrown this silly, stubborn behavior, someone goes and says "DD, you would never do that..." and drop-kicks me back into resigned reality.

One of the first emergences of this trait occurred when I was seven years old.  An older girl at my elementary school was the master of the Cherry Bomb, a challenging move on the monkey bars that involved hanging by your knees from the high bar and swinging back and forth to gain some momentum.  Once the right level of "swing momentum" had been reached, one would then flip her body mid-swing, release her legs, and land gracefully standing on her feet.  It was majestic.  It was fearless.  It was a feat that no one else could accomplish...until I came along.

Unfortunately, while I was basking in the awe of my admiring fans, my little sister Steve thought, if I could do it, she could do it too and ended up with a broken wrist.  Our mom did not share my feeling of glorious accomplishment.

And who could forget when I was twelve and dared to prank call the boy I liked to tell him how cuuute he was but not reveal my true identity—which then backfired (of course it did...it's me) when Cuuute Boy's older brother figured out how to call back our number.  An hour later, my friends and I were no longer guarding the phone, and my sister Rugrat answered to tell Cuute Boy our family's last name.  Oops.  Cuuute Boy made sure no one forgot about that phone call for the rest of the school year.

Finally, this trait was again notable when I was sixteen and a junior in high school.  Steve and I were staying at our seventeen-year-old cousin Prima's house for the night, and Prima decided to take us out to a nightclub featuring an 18-and-under night so that we could dance the night away...or until our midnight curfew.  Well, this nightclub had platform cages—yes, you read that right:  enclosed, barred cages that were up on platforms around the dance floor.  (I promise, it was not quite as sketchy as it sounds.)  It started out as Prima and I trying to convince little Steve to dance in one of those cages for a laugh, but of course Steve shyly refused unless her big sister danced in one first.

Prima let out a huge laugh.  "Yeah, right!  DD would never get up and dance in that cage!" she insisted.

I kid you not—I was in that cage and dancing faster than you can say "underage debauchery."


Bringing us to present day...  Recently, I attended the annual Christmas-tree-lighting ceremony in my town, followed by a post-ceremony drink with Faith, Rowdy, and Todd.  The night starts out fairly quiet—until I notice the DJ working that night.

"That DJ is pretty attractive...how old do you think he is?" I remark, my gaze still affixed on Mr. DJ.

"Yeah, he's definitely cute.  Go request a song," responds Faith, smiling encouragingly.  "Then you have an excuse to talk to him!"  Discussion commences amongst us over which song to request before an agreement is reached, and I'm out of my seat and striding over to the DJ booth.

"Hi."  I give Mr. DJ my best flirtatious smile.  He actually turns away from his music and smiles back.  Score.  "I was wondering if I could request a song...?"

"Sure, what to you want to hear?" Mr. DJ says.

"Well, my friends really want to hear 'Don't Stop Believing,' so they sent me up here to talk to you," I say, putting my hand on my hip, slightly tilting my head, and still smiling.  "Do you think you could play that one?"

I know—I'm pathetically obvious, but it did work.  Introductions were made, Journey was put in the queue, and I sat back down looking triumphant.  He was totally going to glance in my direction right away.  Or soon.  Any second now.  I mean, he did have a job to do....  Sigh.  Maybe not so triumphant.

Rowdy decides to take charge of the situation.  "Here's what you do:  Go buy two drinks; one for you, one for him.  Then you walk up to him, give him the drink, raise yours, say 'cheers' and walk away," she instructs.  "Trust me, it will work.  You will totally get his attention."

I'm skeptical.  "I don't know...that's not really me.  I'm not sure I can pull that one off."  Rowdy and I argue; Faith plays Switzerland; Todd refuses to be dragged into, much less acknowledge, our nonsense.  At last, I give in and obediently march up to the bar defeated.

I manage to talk myself out of this Rowdy-move once I'm alone at the bar waiting to order drinks.  Minutes later, I skulk back to our booth and straight into Rowdy's disapproval.

"Why don't you ever listen to me?!?" she exclaims.  "Why do you give me decision-making power if you don't listen to me?!"

"I was thinking...maybe I should just go flirt with him?" I suggest tentatively.  "I can actually do that!"

"Ugh.  I've seen you flirt.  You cannot do that," Rowdy sighs.

My jaw drops, and I let out huge gasp of shock, quickly followed by a stubborn look of determination.  Without a word, I drop my purse next to Faith, throw off my cardigan sweater, push up the sleeves of my shirt, and stalk off resolutely to conquer the challenge.

As I exercise my best flirting moves on Mr. DJ, back at the table Todd is pretending he doesn't know me (which I'm sure has nothing to do with the fact that I stick my tongue out at all three of them when Mr. DJ has his back turned to change the song).  My flirting works sufficiently enough for Mr. DJ to ask for my number—insufficient, however, in getting Mr. DJ to call.  Weeks later, and my phone still hasn't rung.  Apparently my flirting techniques could use a tune up....

At least I can count on the fact that some things about me will probably never change—too bad it's the things that probably should.

Lesson #10 in Post-Divorce Dating:  Flirting is a time-honored tradition that requires regular use and exercise in order to see improvement.  One should practice flirting on unsuspecting men that are not too important to snare when still enhancing skills.  The use of new flirting methods is highly suggested and encouraged, but beware of the "triple-dog-dare" method—it has not been proven to be the best source of motivation.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée