When Life Goes On But Not The Same


Stan, the man who officiated our marriage, is sparkly and magic. He’s nearly seven feet tall and when I met him he was wearing a sox hat and drinking a dry martini.

When talking about how we envisioned the ceremony I asked if he could minimize the God talk. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re not religious. You’re spiritual.”

“Well. I don’t know. But I have a Jewish soul” I told him and he laughed. Ah, he said, and nodded.

When he drained the bottom of his drink, he set the glass down and took a deep breath, looked at us. “The energy between you two is filling up this whole room. It’s cool”

The three of us had dinner. Learned he’d been married for 40-some years and still talked about his wife like she was his new discovery. They retired a few years ago and now travel the world. Lucio kept his fingers on my back the whole night; played with my hair and beamed. When he talked about his first marriage he explained that it was a mistake. He was thankful because it helped him learn the importance of being sure. That marriage is forever. Until he met me, he never realized the power of a love that you can’t imagine living without. (gag)

Before we left the restaurant, stan leaned down and said I was going to be happy. “It’s really something the way he looks at you.”

His phone number is still programmed in my cell phone, leftover from the weeks before the ceremony. I told stan some brides freak out about flowers and the dress, cake and the seating chart. To me, it was most important that the words, our vows, be perfect.

I’ve imagined conversations with him these last weeks. Calling and telling him what happened, that he was wrong. Something kept stopping me. I didn’t want him to feel bad.

After our dinner the other night, c. (she’s a religion writer, knows him, recommended him) reached out. “Stan. I think Jessica needs to see you.”

I heard from him immediately. We’re having dinner Monday, at the same place we met. This time, there will be no hand on my back, fingers twirling my hair. I’ll fill the room with energy of my own, which is cool.

This Glorious Sadness That Brings Me to My Knees

A bottle of wine was not enough to numb, or even really dull, the sting of last night.

I’ve been talking a big game about being freed from a relationship with cancer. And it’s all true. But hearing ugly details about how he’s blatantly continuing his affair in the newsroom made me mad and sick and fragile all over again. Comments that cut through and are stuck, swirling:

“He’s not acting like a man who is going through any kind of sadness”

“He follows P around the office like a little puppy. It’s entertainment.”

“They showed up at a party together a few weeks ago. They disappeared together too. It was a scandal.”

(Please note, this one is especially offensive BECAUSE NOBODY AT THE PARTY KNOWS I’VE MOVED OUT. He still hasn’t told anyone, and he had the fucking nerve to show up at that party. With her. And tell people that I was out of town on business)

“He told me not to say anything to anyone about you moving out. He said he’s trying to find a way to work it out.”

“He said you’re younger than him, he’s always had to take the lead and carry you. He actually said that he’s smarter than you and doesn’t know if he can learn anything from you.” (She at least laughed when she said that one)

So this morning, I’m back in the place where I have to take a big breath and make sure my throat is steady before I say anything out loud. I have to do the blink as fast as I can trick before I get up to go to the bathroom because I’ve got tears forming at their own will. These tears are pissed off, they’re frustrated, they’re disgusted.

Somehow, the motherfucker has managed to delete the satisfaction from my silence.

The woman who told me all of this was in P’s role when I met her. She told me last night that when she saw them walking out of Starbucks one evening, she could practically see how’d they’d ended up there: he started as her understanding and sensitive friend, always saying nice things about his wife and playing the role of a straight gay friend.

And she could imagine the conversation they were having right then, walking out of starbucks. Him asking her if she’s ever wondered if there’s someone else out there for her, someone other than her husband. Then kissing her on the mouth as soon as the elevator doors closed shut.

Today’s action felt a little like watching marathon episodes of a lame sitcom. I’ll skip the part about waking up to my boss on the phone at about the time I usually arrive in the office and the I Love Lucy frantic hour that followed. Here’s a summary of two episodes.

I. Bridge Over Troubled Water

When I moved out of our condo, I cut all ties but one. I did not remove myself from the association email distribution list. I receive daily dribble, usually sent with red exclamation points to indicate high importance: Someone forgot to water the lawn on their day(!) Don’t forget we have an association meeting in two weeks (!) Someone noticed that the front door seems to be sticking and it’s really hard to open (!)

But today’s alert was worth my while:

DOES ANYBODY KNOW WHERE THE WATERMAIN SWITCH IS?

We have a major leak that seems to be originating on the third floor and we need to shut off the water NOW!!!

Hmm. Interesting. Third floor. That’s where our unit is.

About an hour later:

It appears to be coming from 6457 unit 3 bathroom or washer.

I have contacted Lucio and he is on his way home to turn off the water in his unit. As a precaution, it has been necessary to shut off the water main to the building.

If the leak can be isolated, the water will be turned back on soon.

I'll send an update on the problem as soon as possible.

Mystery solved. These people are vultures. He will not be forgiven for this scandal. Karma. Scene.

II. Said You Needed Time, You Had Time

I have dinner plans with a mutual friend from the newspaper (where he works) later this week. Loyal fans of the show would recognize her for her sordid history with him, her prime role in the unraveling of his first marriage. But yes, she’s a friend of mine. That always made him crazy, understandably nervous.

She recognizes her power to make him and the new girl squirm and likely enjoyed mentioning our dinner plans to him. He’s emailed to ask me why I have time for dinner with her but haven’t found time for a drink to “catch up” with him.

This from the man who still hasn’t apologized for sleeping with another woman. Who isn’t embarrassed to ask me out for a casual drink. After all, he hasn’t made his final decision yet. It would probably help if he could see me one of these nights, get a better sense of whether or not he’d like our life back. Who still doesn’t realize it’s just too late, time’s up.

Don't talk.

This morning, before brunch and bloody marys, we visited a stylish book store. They sell wine and a few cds and sport handmade signs announcing combined readings and wine tastings scheduled for next week.

So, the book I was drawn to seemed a little out of place. but it had it’s own display: the author of He’s Just Not That Into You has a second hot-selling title out now. It’s Called a Breakup Because it’s Broken. It’s pink. It’s for girls. Chicks, even. There’s an entire chapter encouraging women (me?) not to wallow in a pint of ben and jerry’s (“You won’t find him at the bottom, honey”) and there are bold-texted reminders NOT to call him.

Sigh. I KNOW. And I don’t even like ice cream.

But I still flipped through every chapter. No ice cream. No calling. Don’t smell his old clothes. Don’t hope for him to wake up and realize what he’s missing.

Yep. I got it. I already knew that (ok. So I smelled his shirt last week. But admitted that was a setback. And I DID throw it away without needing to read an entire chapter on it first)

So I walked out of the store feeling good. I cruised through an entire textbook in ten minutes. I measure my weekend progress this way: hung at least 11 things on the walls of my apartment. Set my dvr to record season passes of my favorite shows minus watching-without-him pangs. Grocery shopped, again, with sparky satisfaction about not putting his dinner foods in my cart. Fantasized about the man who doesn’t think the women in the dove campaign are “disgusting” and will love me most when I’m strong and sure, not when I’m crying and in need of a hug.

But there is something about that book that’s sticking with me. It’s that I know he does think I’m wallowing in ice cream. Smelling his clothes. Too sad to answer his emails, too crumpled to imagine life without him. That he thinks I’m waiting with fingers crossed to hear his “decision” about our future. Will he or won’t he take me back, start this again, try to commit.

So I guess I DO need that reminder: Don’t Call. because right about now, I’m dying to pick up the phone and let him know, just in case he’s wondering, that it’s called a breakup because it’s broken. I’m done and that’s my decision. Not his.