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
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Sunday, December 26, 2010
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
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.
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
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
An Apple a Day
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a beautiful young princess who dreamed of one day finding true love. She believed that falling in love was something truly special, something that would make complete sense when she was finally lucky enough to have it happen to her.
As this young princess grew older, she met a handsome prince. The prince was not like any other man she had encountered before—in fact, upon their very first introduction, the princess was struck with a fluttery feeling deep in her heart that told her this prince was something special. And as the princess got to know him, she realized that the prince possessed every quality she had ever hoped for in her "true love."
The prince and the princess fell in love instantly and lived happily, ever after...
PFFFFFFTTTTT!!!!
Okay, I'm just kidding, don't worry—not another depressing blog post, I promise! But let's be honest—there are just certain things you were absolutely never told about fairy tales as a child.
To start, Prince Charming is a Disney character. This man does not exist in the real world.
Secondly, even this fictional romantic prince has flaws—like, he is ready to marry a girl simply because she looks hot in a ball gown and has the propensity for dashing off mysteriously while leaving shoes and crap around for someone else to pick up after her. Leading us with no other conclusion but:
There is absolutely—positively, 100% scientifically-proven, without-a-doubt-nonexistent, impossibly—no perfect man.And, yes, so glad that you asked—this does include Dr. Perfect.
When I met Dr. Perfect for the first time, I was amazed at his apparent flawlessness. He had not only good looks, but an interesting and fun personality, similar interests, a sense of humor, and topped it all off with the fact that he was single. If you remember back to my first post about him, Rowdy and Zamboni were also quite impressed—I believe Rowdy's text to me during the course of that night went something like this:
But then of course, one has to wonder... Why is this man single?Rowdy: Omg I want u to have cute little blond doctor babies... pls date him, I am 2 in love with him for you not to date him!
Could it be that he is simply between relationships at the moment? Maybe he made the decision to hold out for that one right woman to come along? Did he suffer some horrible heartbreak and now approaches dating with caution? These would all be acceptable reasons for Dr. Perfect's single-dom.
However, there are also the other questions that seemingly-perfect-guy-single-dom brings forth: for instance, does he have some severe social disorder? Does he secretly enjoy playing with plastic Star Wars action figures in his spare time? Is he the leader of a polygamous cult that requires all members to remain unattached until age 30? Is he suffering from some incurable disease that causes giant puss-filled ulcers to cover his fantastically hairy back?
(All very valid, reasonable questions, of course.)
My first date with Dr. Perfect was simple. He called, requested my company at dinner, offered a mutually-agreeable date for said dinner, met me at the restaurant, paid the bill, walked me to my car—and he brought me flowers. Flowers! On a first date! (I told you this guy seemed too good to be true...who does that?!?) Absolutely no drama, no weirdness, no issue. Perfect pedestal still standing, and Dr. Perfect standing strong atop it.
But the second date with Dr. Perfect? Let's just say, it never happened—but not for lack of trying.
Date Attempt #1: Sunday
Dr. Perfect: So I'd love to get together again this week...
DD: I would love that too! I am only free on Wednesday or Thursday...do either of those work for you?
Dr. Perfect: I am free all week, so just let me know what works for you.
DD: Well, either of those two days are good for me...I have plans the rest of the week, but I can do dinner or drinks or something either Wednesday or Thursday—whichever.
Dr. Perfect: Okay, well, just let me know when you are free, and we'll do something then.I think there was a small part inside me that started sounding the alarm bells at this point. I partially felt as though I was on a phone conversation where I could hear everything the other person was saying, but they couldn't hear me. Didn't I tell you when I was free???
Date Attempt #2: Tuesday
DD: Hey, it's DD. I know we had talked about getting together tomorrow night or Thursday, so I thought I'd call to see if one of those days still worked for you. Send me a text or something tomorrow during the day and let me know if you want to make plans.
No contact from Dr. Perfect that night or Wednesday. Well, I thought, he must have just decided he's not interested. No big deal; it happens. No one needs to mail me the book He's Just Not That Into You. I get it: if a guy wants to call me, he will move mountains to find a way. Hence, Dr. Perfect threw me a curveball when he texted around 5 p.m. on Thursday evening like nothing had happened.
Date Attempt #3: Thursday
Dr. Perfect: Hey there! R u still free 2nite? Just got off work & was thinking we should get together for dinner.
DD: Hey, sorry - I actually hadn't heard from u about it, so I went ahead & made plans with a friend.
I really had made plans, too. Faith had texted me earlier that day about dinner, so I went ahead and said yes. I certainly didn't know I'd hear back from Dr. Perfect at the eleventh hour expecting me to be free. Still, noting the absolute lack of perfect men in the world, I decided to cut him some slack. Again, we made frustratingly vague plans to hang out that weekend. But of course, that weekend I spent lying in bed feeling deathly ill and unable to date anyone ... not that I heard from him until late afternoon on Sunday.
Date Attempt #4: Sunday
Dr. Perfect: On my way home from the football game—want 2 see a movie 2nite?
DD: Ugh, I can't. been sick in bed all wkend. But I really would love to hang out. Can we get together this wk? When r u free?
Dr. Perfect: Sure, just let me know. I don't have any plans.
DD: Great, how bout Thurs. nite?
Dr. Perfect: Sure, just let me know, we'll do something this wk.
AAAHHHHHH!!! Why was it so difficult to make definite plans with this guy? Commitment issues? Not a planner? I couldn't figure it out. When I was out with my girls on Friday night, I filled them in on Dr. Perfect's emerging flaw. That was when Chanel and Rowdy intervened and hijacked my cell phone for the night, so the text messages between "me" and Dr. Perfect looked something like this:
Dr. Perfect: A little sassy tonight, aren't we?
DD: Just telling u how it is. So u know.
Dr. Perfect: Glad I know ;-)
Rowdy and Chanel must have been seductively sassy in crafting their text messages to Dr. Perfect from me, because he actually showed up at the bar to see us that night. And he was as seemingly perfect as always while he was there with us. And he promised to plan a date for Sunday. And it went exactly like you think it did.
Dr. Perfect: You looked very cute last night at the bar :)
DD: Thx :) So did u. R we still on for a date tomorrow?
Dr. Perfect: Sure. we'll do smthing.
DD: What time r u thinking?
Dr. Perfect: After the football game. I'll call.
DD: What do u want to do?
Dr. Perfect: We'll see. whatever
Well, needless to say, "we'll see" just wasn't cutting it for me. After another few texts of I-need-at-least-a-definite-time-cause-I'm-not-the-girl-who-sits-around-waiting-for-a-man, with him responding with various versions of you-are-sure-being-a-lot-of-work-how-dare-you-want-at-least-12-hours-advance-notice-on-the-second-date, and Dr. Perfect had completely fallen off his pedestal and down into the trenches of all other men in this world.
I never did figure out why I was unintentionally keeping the doctor away—but I think it's safe to say, it sure wasn't a daily apple.
Lesson #9 in Post-Divorce Dating: There are no perfect men in this world—only men who are better at hiding their flaws than others—but one should date these men without fear. Eventually, even Superman has to remove his disguise and reveal his true identity.
Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée
Sunday, December 5, 2010
I Used To Be...
This weekend I took a journey to my past. I woke up, ate breakfast, packed a bag, hopped in my car, and drove until I reached nine years ago. His eyes were still a piercing blue. He still made me laugh at his jokes. He still made me feel safe, and he could still melt all tension and anxiety completely away from me just by being near. The chemistry was still there between us. Everything was exactly the same as it had been before—and it wasn't. I was different.
Mr. Cadet has always been my ghost of lost-loves past, and I finally had the chance to see him over the weekend after so much time had passed since our last encounter. Meeting up with Mr. Cadet again after all these years was absolutely wonderful. It was amazing to see how your memory holds on to things that you don't even realize were there. We would be sitting there talking and catching up, and he would do this cute little thing where he tips back his head slightly when he is saying something funny, all while giving me this goofy little grin, and I would immediately think—I remember that! When he hugged me, just the way he smelled would send a tidal wave of emotions and memories crashing down on me. And when I looked at him, though almost ten years older now, I could still see that same 23-year-old who used to race me across town in his truck so I wouldn't miss my curfew—and who would then stop in the church parking lot down the street from my parents' house to kiss me when we made it with a few minutes to spare.
Mr. Cadet hadn't changed a bit, except older, and maybe a little wiser. He was still the same handsome, charming, genuine, honorable gentleman. So why didn't my heart drop into my stomach when he looked at me like it used to? Why didn't I allow myself to jump into the sky and float along with fluffy clouds of silly emotion? And though he told me more than once that he had a great time and wanted to meet up again soon, why was I skeptical that I would ever hear from him again and preparing myself for the worst in my heart?
I suppose that I shouldn't expect to be normal quite yet. It has been nearly a year, but it feels as though I have been "getting over" my divorce for much longer than that. I'm finally ready to be normal again.
But instead, it feels as though a part of me has died, leaving an empty void in my chest, and the part of me that knew how to love someone is gone forever. I wonder sometimes if I will ever be capable of that kind of love again. When my ex-husband destroyed our marriage, he seems to have destroyed the part of my heart that was filled with hope for fairytale endings and the ability to feel romantic passion. And here I am left, not only with a broken heart, but with a broken spirit—and wondering if it ever ends.
I wrote this poem when I was in college, around the time that Mr. Cadet was in my life on a daily basis, and I found myself thinking about it today. At least I know that, when I wrote this, I must have been feeling close to the same way that I am today, ten years later. Somehow, in the years after I wrote this poem, I became that glorious bird again. Hopefully, I can do it once more now.
Dumbfounded Divorcée
Mr. Cadet has always been my ghost of lost-loves past, and I finally had the chance to see him over the weekend after so much time had passed since our last encounter. Meeting up with Mr. Cadet again after all these years was absolutely wonderful. It was amazing to see how your memory holds on to things that you don't even realize were there. We would be sitting there talking and catching up, and he would do this cute little thing where he tips back his head slightly when he is saying something funny, all while giving me this goofy little grin, and I would immediately think—I remember that! When he hugged me, just the way he smelled would send a tidal wave of emotions and memories crashing down on me. And when I looked at him, though almost ten years older now, I could still see that same 23-year-old who used to race me across town in his truck so I wouldn't miss my curfew—and who would then stop in the church parking lot down the street from my parents' house to kiss me when we made it with a few minutes to spare.
Mr. Cadet hadn't changed a bit, except older, and maybe a little wiser. He was still the same handsome, charming, genuine, honorable gentleman. So why didn't my heart drop into my stomach when he looked at me like it used to? Why didn't I allow myself to jump into the sky and float along with fluffy clouds of silly emotion? And though he told me more than once that he had a great time and wanted to meet up again soon, why was I skeptical that I would ever hear from him again and preparing myself for the worst in my heart?
I suppose that I shouldn't expect to be normal quite yet. It has been nearly a year, but it feels as though I have been "getting over" my divorce for much longer than that. I'm finally ready to be normal again.
But instead, it feels as though a part of me has died, leaving an empty void in my chest, and the part of me that knew how to love someone is gone forever. I wonder sometimes if I will ever be capable of that kind of love again. When my ex-husband destroyed our marriage, he seems to have destroyed the part of my heart that was filled with hope for fairytale endings and the ability to feel romantic passion. And here I am left, not only with a broken heart, but with a broken spirit—and wondering if it ever ends.
I wrote this poem when I was in college, around the time that Mr. Cadet was in my life on a daily basis, and I found myself thinking about it today. At least I know that, when I wrote this, I must have been feeling close to the same way that I am today, ten years later. Somehow, in the years after I wrote this poem, I became that glorious bird again. Hopefully, I can do it once more now.
Forever fearless,I used to be…
A bird with golden wings—
I lived high up in the mountain tops
That were peaked with silvery snow.
Each morning
When the sun flashed
Its first brilliant rays of daylight across the land,
I would swoop down
Straight down
Passing clouds as I dropped,
Falling so fast towards treetops
And then
Remounting the wind
And letting it carry me up again.
I used to fly behind waterfalls
And let my big golden wings
Gently brush the crystal-blue water.
I used to sweep through grassy fields
Covered with wildflowers
And leafy trees
Filled with chattering chipmunks...
Then
I used to rise above the clouds
And flutter in and out of rainbows.
At last, as the sun’s bright light
Disappeared behind the mountains,
I used to land softly in my nest
With the sweet taste of freedom on my beak—
A bird with golden wings…but I’m not anymore.
Dumbfounded Divorcée
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Music & Lyrics
Lately, I have a new favorite song. Most of the time, a song catches my attention based solely on the melody. I become so entranced by the music, the lyrics barely register. However, with this new favorite of mine, I am noticing—and enjoying—both music and lyrics of the song.
Possibly it's due to the fact that I have been on several more dates with Mr. Songwriter, who has, well...surprised me. Though his potential had a slow start (despite the fact that his tried-but-true bathroom line actually did work to get a first kiss), Date #2 had only slight weirdness, and Date #3 was pretty wonderful.
The "slight weirdness" that erupted on Date #2 began with a phone call about an hour before Mr. Songwriter was scheduled to pick me up for a Halloween-themed show he was taking me to downtown (thanks to his co-worker who had passed free tickets around to all his school employees).
Mr. Songwriter: So I'm not sure if I told you, but I work with my ex-girlfriend, and I ran into her today.... I was crossing my fingers that she wasn't going to the show tonight, but unfortunately she is—and bringing various family members with her. I didn't say anything about the fact that I was going with you, but now I'm thinking I should have? I might call her and let her know that I will be there with a female companion...just so she doesn't get upset or anything...so she is at least prepared...?
Was he asking my advice? Did he really want to know what I—the woman he was taking on a second date that night—thought about how best to protect his ex-girlfriend's feelings? Reminder: I've been on a date with this guy once (if that drink-at-the-bar even counts as an actual date). Other than that, all I know about him is what Big D and Mamasita have passed on about their dear friend. I remember hearing mention of an old girlfriend living in town that was fairly recent, but I hadn't gotten the impression it was all that serious. Maybe I was wrong?
But, honestly, even if I was wrong about the degree of heartbreak—have Mr. Songwriter and I reached that level of comfort on the second date where he feels it necessary to share intimate romantic history with me?
I wasn't sure really how to respond—if memory serves me correctly, it was something along the lines of, "uh, okay...," followed by, "you don't have to take me if you would rather go with someone else and avoid the issue." However, he quickly insisted he wanted to take me to the show, then debated out loud whether he should call her or not to let her know that a girl was going with him, and finally questioned if I would feel awkward or weird being put in that situation. He genuinely asked if I would feel uncomfortable running into his ex-girlfriend.
Okay, now, I'll be honest...maybe this makes me an unaffected, uncompassionate person...possibly my heart has turned black from my own all-encompassing heartbreak...and maybe this will label me as a senselessly callous person, but...
Why the heck would I care?!?
(...at least I'm honest, right?)
After I hang up the phone, I have to laugh, still dumbfounded and wondering whether I should care about my presence upsetting one of his girlfriends past. I really just...don't. At all. In fact, I cannot comprehend why I should care if Ms. Heartbroken has to leave the show early because she is bawling her pretty little pitiful eyes out and cannot stand to be in the same room as Mr. Songwriter and some chick (me) who, for all she knows, could be his cousin (I seriously am turning into such a bitter divorcée...).
I really wanted to warn him before we left. This is me, Dumbfounded Divorcée—of course we are going to run into her at the show. There was really no doubt in my mind that dumb luck would, once again, prevail. At least it provided extra entertainment for the night:
The rest of the Date #2 was surprisingly enjoyable (not to mention the next few dates that would follow). Though Mr. Songwriter is not my type—in fact, he is the absolute polar opposite of my ex-husband—we still seem to have this curious connection and chemistry. While my ex-husband was a ultra-conservative, suit-wearing, financially successful, southern good ole boy, and Mr. Songwriter is an artsy, guitar-playing, tattooed, tree-hugging-democratic dreamer, the conversation between Mr. Songwriter and I is never difficult. The ridiculously comfortable feeling that we have around each other has been there since Date #2. The way he seems to know exactly what will make me run screaming away and what is the right amount of affection or attention is simply eerie. And, just like music and lyrics, our song seems to play in perfect tune.
And, so far, I don't want to stop listening.
Lesson #8 in Post-Divorce Dating: When your date makes serious second-date mistakes, like acting as if his ex-girlfriends are all scarred for life because he broke up with them, don't give up on the potential just yet—with certain songs, the music and lyrics need to play out a few verses before you start to pick up the tune.
Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée
Possibly it's due to the fact that I have been on several more dates with Mr. Songwriter, who has, well...surprised me. Though his potential had a slow start (despite the fact that his tried-but-true bathroom line actually did work to get a first kiss), Date #2 had only slight weirdness, and Date #3 was pretty wonderful.
The "slight weirdness" that erupted on Date #2 began with a phone call about an hour before Mr. Songwriter was scheduled to pick me up for a Halloween-themed show he was taking me to downtown (thanks to his co-worker who had passed free tickets around to all his school employees).
Was he asking my advice? Did he really want to know what I—the woman he was taking on a second date that night—thought about how best to protect his ex-girlfriend's feelings? Reminder: I've been on a date with this guy once (if that drink-at-the-bar even counts as an actual date). Other than that, all I know about him is what Big D and Mamasita have passed on about their dear friend. I remember hearing mention of an old girlfriend living in town that was fairly recent, but I hadn't gotten the impression it was all that serious. Maybe I was wrong?
But, honestly, even if I was wrong about the degree of heartbreak—have Mr. Songwriter and I reached that level of comfort on the second date where he feels it necessary to share intimate romantic history with me?
I wasn't sure really how to respond—if memory serves me correctly, it was something along the lines of, "uh, okay...," followed by, "you don't have to take me if you would rather go with someone else and avoid the issue." However, he quickly insisted he wanted to take me to the show, then debated out loud whether he should call her or not to let her know that a girl was going with him, and finally questioned if I would feel awkward or weird being put in that situation. He genuinely asked if I would feel uncomfortable running into his ex-girlfriend.
Okay, now, I'll be honest...maybe this makes me an unaffected, uncompassionate person...possibly my heart has turned black from my own all-encompassing heartbreak...and maybe this will label me as a senselessly callous person, but...
Why the heck would I care?!?
(...at least I'm honest, right?)
After I hang up the phone, I have to laugh, still dumbfounded and wondering whether I should care about my presence upsetting one of his girlfriends past. I really just...don't. At all. In fact, I cannot comprehend why I should care if Ms. Heartbroken has to leave the show early because she is bawling her pretty little pitiful eyes out and cannot stand to be in the same room as Mr. Songwriter and some chick (me) who, for all she knows, could be his cousin (I seriously am turning into such a bitter divorcée...).
I really wanted to warn him before we left. This is me, Dumbfounded Divorcée—of course we are going to run into her at the show. There was really no doubt in my mind that dumb luck would, once again, prevail. At least it provided extra entertainment for the night:
Mr. Songwriter: "I think we actually have pretty good seats, from what I—oh, no, slow down, slow down, let these people get ahead—oh! nevermind, she saw us. Okay, smile and wave, smile and wave... Ugh, she doesn't look too happy.... Oh well, I gave her the courtesy call to warn her—what more could I do? At least hopefully we're not sitting near her...."Meanwhile, I'm now convinced that Ms. Heartbroken and Mr. Songwriter must have broken up mere weeks ago after dating for a year or so. Turns out, this "relationship" ended back over the summer after only six months. Therefore, at this point I'm thinking—is he crazy arrogant, or is he really just a nice guy?
The rest of the Date #2 was surprisingly enjoyable (not to mention the next few dates that would follow). Though Mr. Songwriter is not my type—in fact, he is the absolute polar opposite of my ex-husband—we still seem to have this curious connection and chemistry. While my ex-husband was a ultra-conservative, suit-wearing, financially successful, southern good ole boy, and Mr. Songwriter is an artsy, guitar-playing, tattooed, tree-hugging-democratic dreamer, the conversation between Mr. Songwriter and I is never difficult. The ridiculously comfortable feeling that we have around each other has been there since Date #2. The way he seems to know exactly what will make me run screaming away and what is the right amount of affection or attention is simply eerie. And, just like music and lyrics, our song seems to play in perfect tune.
And, so far, I don't want to stop listening.
Lesson #8 in Post-Divorce Dating: When your date makes serious second-date mistakes, like acting as if his ex-girlfriends are all scarred for life because he broke up with them, don't give up on the potential just yet—with certain songs, the music and lyrics need to play out a few verses before you start to pick up the tune.
Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Teacher Can Still Be Taught
Top Ten* Lessons Learned by Dumbfounded Divorcée during GNO with her Friends:
Lesson #1: A quick celebratory drink at 5 o'clock always ends up lasting at least six hours.
Lesson #2: Nights out involving any combination of DD, Chanel, Rowdy, Dolly, Stella, or Faith require a mature and responsible chaperone to be present.
Lesson #3: When you leave for a trip to the bathroom, you may come back to find a Navy officer in your seat.
Lesson #4: Think twice before you ask a Navy officer why he is carrying two sailor hats—you may learn disturbing information. Like, Navy officers who carry around extra sailor hats might be doing so in order to make trades with hot women for various sexual favors.
Lesson #5: Rowdy is an enabler, but also the best wing-man ever. Therefore, don't ever point out a guy who you consider attractive unless you are entirely prepared to have this information shared with said guy and an introduction with him scheduled to occur imminently.
Lesson #6: Buy a table full of already-drunk men any drink they desire, and the end result will be 6 SoCo & lime shots for your table and hilarious company for the rest of the night. Plus an amusing blog post—can't forget that one.
Lesson #7: When Dolly's husband, Great Dane, drives by the bar where your group is seated at an outside table, only to see his wife surrounded by flirtatious men, Great Dane won't get panicked, angry, or jealous. He'll park the car, order a beer, and sit back to watch the madness ensue.
Lesson #8: Great Dane is not a good stand-in for a chaperone, even if he is the current front-runner for the Husband-of-the-Year Award.
Lesson #9: Chanel is a flirting goddess. Not only did she get asked for her phone number by the hottest male visitor to our table of the night, but he actually called...five minutes after we started walking away.
Lesson #10: While sharing drinks at the bar, Faith's vegetarianism and Chanel's annual meat-intake rules may result in an intense debate over the ethical killing of cows. Dolly is a star at making her opinion known, in addition to breaking the tension—she deals with it by ordering a burger.
Lesson #11: Shared hatred for the Florida Gators helps Rowdy and DD make friends with male strangers who become all the more appealing once you find out they say the word "boat" with a Southern accent.
Lesson #12: When going out to a bar, one should wear a light-blue cardigan. This magical clothing article produces insistent promises by attractive men that, since they are flying back home the next morning, they will schedule a return trip to your city just to take you on a date.
Lesson #13: Stella's neighborhood needs to be visited more often—but next time, a sleepover also planned in order avoid the 20-minute ride home, thereby giving Chanel and DD far less time to write unintelligible text messages and make phone calls to everyone we think might want to share in late-night pizza with us.
Lesson #14: Pizza, while enticingly delicious at 1 a.m., does not fare so well after beer and SoCo shots.
Lesson #15: Finally, no drink could be sweeter, no joke as hilarious, no evening as perfect as the one shared with my friends. I love you guys to the moon and back. Let's plan another night out soon!
Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée
* — Okay, so I lied. There are 15 lessons, not 10. After sharing an entire blog full of embarrassingly and entirely true tales, I am entitled to one free pass. So deal with it :-)
Lesson #1: A quick celebratory drink at 5 o'clock always ends up lasting at least six hours.
Lesson #2: Nights out involving any combination of DD, Chanel, Rowdy, Dolly, Stella, or Faith require a mature and responsible chaperone to be present.
Lesson #3: When you leave for a trip to the bathroom, you may come back to find a Navy officer in your seat.
Lesson #4: Think twice before you ask a Navy officer why he is carrying two sailor hats—you may learn disturbing information. Like, Navy officers who carry around extra sailor hats might be doing so in order to make trades with hot women for various sexual favors.
Lesson #5: Rowdy is an enabler, but also the best wing-man ever. Therefore, don't ever point out a guy who you consider attractive unless you are entirely prepared to have this information shared with said guy and an introduction with him scheduled to occur imminently.
Lesson #6: Buy a table full of already-drunk men any drink they desire, and the end result will be 6 SoCo & lime shots for your table and hilarious company for the rest of the night. Plus an amusing blog post—can't forget that one.
Lesson #7: When Dolly's husband, Great Dane, drives by the bar where your group is seated at an outside table, only to see his wife surrounded by flirtatious men, Great Dane won't get panicked, angry, or jealous. He'll park the car, order a beer, and sit back to watch the madness ensue.
Lesson #8: Great Dane is not a good stand-in for a chaperone, even if he is the current front-runner for the Husband-of-the-Year Award.
Lesson #9: Chanel is a flirting goddess. Not only did she get asked for her phone number by the hottest male visitor to our table of the night, but he actually called...five minutes after we started walking away.
Lesson #10: While sharing drinks at the bar, Faith's vegetarianism and Chanel's annual meat-intake rules may result in an intense debate over the ethical killing of cows. Dolly is a star at making her opinion known, in addition to breaking the tension—she deals with it by ordering a burger.
Lesson #11: Shared hatred for the Florida Gators helps Rowdy and DD make friends with male strangers who become all the more appealing once you find out they say the word "boat" with a Southern accent.
Lesson #12: When going out to a bar, one should wear a light-blue cardigan. This magical clothing article produces insistent promises by attractive men that, since they are flying back home the next morning, they will schedule a return trip to your city just to take you on a date.
Lesson #13: Stella's neighborhood needs to be visited more often—but next time, a sleepover also planned in order avoid the 20-minute ride home, thereby giving Chanel and DD far less time to write unintelligible text messages and make phone calls to everyone we think might want to share in late-night pizza with us.
Lesson #14: Pizza, while enticingly delicious at 1 a.m., does not fare so well after beer and SoCo shots.
Lesson #15: Finally, no drink could be sweeter, no joke as hilarious, no evening as perfect as the one shared with my friends. I love you guys to the moon and back. Let's plan another night out soon!
Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée
* — Okay, so I lied. There are 15 lessons, not 10. After sharing an entire blog full of embarrassingly and entirely true tales, I am entitled to one free pass. So deal with it :-)
Monday, November 8, 2010
Adventures in Face-Licking
Todd, Rowdy, and Bear attended the local university in town and get football tickets together every season. It was my first game tagging along with them. The weather was perfect, the tailgating was abundant, and the people watching was sensational. All in all, it was quite the day—that is, until our team started losing. Badly.
Around the third quarter of the game, Rowdy and I finally give up hope and decide to venture on a little excursion to visit with her good friend who works at the stadium—and what a good choice! Not only does her friend get us into the Club Level seating of the game, but we are escorted into the VIP Club (a.k.a. Party Lounge) of the stadium! I feel as though we have entered some prestigious night club and half-expect to turn around and see P-Diddy kicking back drinks with the Rock and the Kardashian sisters scantily-clad on the dance floor. Unreal.
So Rowdy and I claim our place at the railing overlooking the field to watch the end of the game while inwardly freaking over the good fortune that has landed us in this very exclusive spot. Out of nowhere, an attractive, mid-30s guy joins us and stands at the railing next to me.
"Hi there," he says with a huge smile at me. I smile back, say hi, and then quickly glance back at Rowdy who is giving me a discreet thumbs-up in approval of Mr. VIP's disarming good looks.
Before I can barely turn my head back to Mr. VIP, he has picked up my hand and is now holding it. I kid you not. What the heck? I draw my gaze from his hand holding mine up to his face, and I am surprised that he is simply standing there, smiling broadly at me, his body now completely turned to face me instead of the football game.
"Errr...hi? How are you?" I ask him nervously, still wondering what exactly to do about getting my hand out of his grasp without revealing that I am a bit freaked out at his unashamed affection with a complete stranger. I can see Rowdy trying desperately to surpress the laughter that is bubbling up in her, without much success. I slowly start to pull my hand away, but that only makes him clutch it more firmly. Yikes.
"Are you nice? You look like you are nice," Mr. VIP says to me, matter-of-factly, with a serious gaze.
I carefully consider my response. "I think I am nice. Are you nice?"
He sighs resignedly. "I am nice."
"You say that like it is a bad thing!" For a moment, I think I forget that this conversation is beyond weird and actually react normally to Mr. VIP's dejected comment.
Mr. VIP continues to smile at me. Rowdy intervenes in an amused attempt to elicit more entertainment from this transaction, reveals that Mr. VIP has season tickets to this expensive part of the stadium, ends up with his phone number and an post-game outing invitation (shocker), and causes this guy to start rubbing my neck at one point, as well. Creepiness abounds.
"What do I do?!?" I whisper to Rowdy at one point. "I mean, he's cute, but come on!!!"
"Shhh, you could get a really awesome date out of this! Go with it! He's got to be loaded to have season tickets in here," she urges.
Finally, one of Mr. VIP's friends comes up to inform him they are headed out. Mr. VIP turns to give me a seductive smile. "You should come with me," he says to me with a wink.
I think quickly and use Rowdy as my excuse. "Oh, well, can't...I'm with her. We came here together. Kinda a package deal tonight. Sorry."
Then, Mr. VIP leans in close, gets right up to my face, before he responds: "So both of you come with me—I like the package."
I wish I could say that was the end of that, but unfortunately, Mr. VIP couldn't leave without saying good bye. He put both his arms around my neck and proceeded to make out with the side of my face. Again—not kidding. He actually licked my face, right there in the middle of the VIP Club of the stadium.
Bear: I'm gonna blog about my date last night. Like, 'we met for dinner, made inane chit-chat, ate food, said goodnight'...actually that would be the exact post lol
DD: why does this weird stuff only happen to me? i had a guy LICK MY FACE. where do i find these people? gross
Bear: it happens to everyone
DD: no really - that doesn't happen to everyone
Bear: lol, ok that one is just funny. but go to a douche magnet like the VIP lounge at the stadium and people are going to lick ur face! its just common sense
DD: i'm gonna take a poll. how many people have had their face licked by a stranger. guess what - i bet not that many people are gonna respond yes!
So go ahead—help Bear and I settle our dispute. Vote below!
Have you ever had your face licked by a
stranger in the middle of a public place?
Lesson #7 in Post-Divorce Dating: If a complete stranger ever approaches you, takes your hand in his, and smiles at you seductively, get out of there fast and report the suspect immediately to the authorities—he could be a face-licker. Fight back, America. Remember—you can make a difference.
Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée
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