The rest is still unwritten

This July has been full of fireworks.

In a million small towns and big cities, the fireworks on the 4th are choreographed: The beginning. The middle. The end.

But my July sparks have been smacked with circles and layers, rising and falling with no clear beginning or end.

In these short July weeks I packed up and said goodbye to the place that represented the “end” of my marriage. I moved to a place that doesn’t feel like a beginning; it just feels like me.

I said goodbye to a colleague and friend who came, very distinctly, into my life the day after I left my ex-husband. It didn’t feel like an end. It felt like layers, our mash of beginnings and endings, adding up to a world of shifts and maybes and what nexts.

And I’ve been inspired by the realization that real fireworks—the builds, the ooohs, the aaahs—keep bringing new flavors of sure and unsure, right and wrong, strong and weak, brave and scared, gambling and gutless.

It’s tough to match those up with the ooohs and aaahs of something that’s bright and loud and solid and sure, but it’s something to know that those sparks are there, all the time, promises of what’s to come.

This is the finale of Do Over; the end of what’s done, the beginning of a new and building middle.

Knock Loud. I’m Home.

Two years of strength-building.
Soul-cleaning.
Streamlining. Throwing things away.
Cutting back, removing, erasing.
Making things smaller, tighter, simpler.
Doing things my way, by myself.
Being “independent.” A “strong woman.”
Accountable only to myself.

Two years of marking my progress: the absence of emotion, empty apartment rooms.
Two years of reveling in my love for shopping alone, eating alone, working alone, sleeping alone.
Setting my own rules and my own schedule.
Accountable only to myself.

Lately, I’ve been doing things a different way. Adding what I used to call clutter, stripping what I used to call strength.

Instead of peeling back layers to scrape them out, I’ve been peeling them back and filling them with feeling.

I met someone. It’s scary.

This is new. It’s fresh. And I’d rather evaluate it, analyze it, work through it than keep patting myself on the back because I’m able to read, emotionless, the steady stream of emails and text messages my ex-husband is still sending.

After two years of strength-building, I might be ready to strip down and Do Over. Again.

I’d rather shop with someone.
Cook with someone.
Work with my back propped up against someone else.
Start the day with someone, end the day with someone.
I’d rather stop being accountable only to myself.

*Paula. This re-entry is 200% for you. Thanks for tagging me!

You Can Soften Your Edge Without Losing Your Way

No doubt, the crash of my marriage was more of a beginning than an end. I gained more than I lost. I can look back and shudder to think that could have been me, my life, my forever.

But there are things I gave up, too. There are things I miss and want. These things fall into the category of 'the life I was on track for':

I should not live in a rented apartment with neighbors who play too-loud mariachi music, neighbors who throw cigarettes all over the deck, neighbors who have loud parties on Wednesday nights. I should live in a house with my husband and it should be the second one we own together.

I should be like my friend who calls her husband on the way home from work to say she forgot her house key, she needs him to let her in. I should not be the woman who frantically checks her purse three times every time she closes the door because if she forgets the key, there's nobody to let her in.

I should be like my friend who spent the first 70-degree Wednesday of the season walking, with her husband, to the park in their new neighborhood to watch people and then share corn on the cob from a paper bag and say everything in this neighborhood is like a holiday, a carnival, a festival.

I should be closer to being like my friend who is collects friends by guaging the ages of their offspring; plotting playdates

I should belong to a book club that sometimes meets at my more domestic and less single home. My fridge should contain makings for said book club instead of single-serve containers.

And I should be ready to consider moving toward that kind of sharing. When I let myself be convinced to explore the possibilities of dating, I see men like this:

A guy with broad shoulders and a strong jaw and a manly job and a golden retriever who "doesn't play games" and wants a partner to run with, spend Saturday mornings with, cook with.

A guy from australia with a job in finance and a great wardrobe.

A guy who plays vollryball on saturdays and builds shelves in his closet on the weekends.

A guy who with a wine collection and a 401k.

But I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to let go of this lock that says it's really not a safe idea, this throwing caution to the wind and giving out my phone number, my secrets, my heart.

Steady As She Goes


Today, I catalogued other people’s new year’s resolutions:
celebrities who aren’t going to swear anymore and are going to spend more time at home, relaxing.
A woman in the grocery store who is going to cook.
A man at the gym who is going to lift.
A guy on the phone at the gas station who is going to drink less, man.

And each one sparked my little voice, the one that says, on cue, I don’t believe in new year’s resolutions. I never make them.

But I am resolved, and new year’s is, maybe, a time to reflect on that.

I rang in 2004 with a resolve of hope. Freshly engaged. Starting a January I knew would be better than December, when I found out my new fiancé was sending emails, in Spanish, to a secretary in his office: he didn’t think she should wear underwear to work. he thought it was hot that she went to victoria’s secret on her lunch break. He was hard just watching her walk to the vending machine.

It was a mistake, he said. He took it all back, he said. It meant nothing. She isn’t even hot. She’s got a big ass. I’m such an idiot, I’ll never do it again. We’re getting married, baby. Come on. I love you.

I lied to myself: i love him. I’m committed, loyal. He will be too.

I rang in 2005 with a resolve of newly-wedded bliss. I twinkled my wedding ring at my high school reunion. I told the story of how my husband shoveled my car out of the snow. I was immune to the charms of everyone but my husband, who surprised me with perfect Christmas gifts. We toasted the new year at home, didn’t want to celebrate with anyone but each other.

I lied to myself: see? We’re happy. He loves me. I can trust him.

I rang in 2006 with a resolve of strength. Still living out of boxes in my new apartment, adjusting to paying rent instead of a mortgage and missing my stainless steel kitchen. Refusing to cry about never getting to light the fireplace in our new condo. Stumbling in high heels and glitter. a convincing party girl.

I lied to myself: I’m fine. That was a bad chapter. Move on. start over. No problem.

I’m ringing in 2007 with friends. unresolved. And that feels right.
I’m smarter than I was three years ago.
I’m less naïve than I was two years ago.
I’m more vulnerable than I was a year ago.
I’m strong enough to know that it’s ok to not know what the next year will bring.

...and if I DID have to come up with a new year’s resolution in the grocery line, at the gym, at the gas pump, it would be this: I’m not done with this diary. I resolve to keep reflecting.

It’s not a love. It’s not a love. It’s not a love. It’s not a love song

This, for me, is a memory-rich time of year. Fall. I know every smell and color and they all link to something. These weeks, Halloween passing and Thanksgiving coming, have been a series of snapshots, comparisons against last year:

Then:
L showing up at my gym, a Tuesday. Cocky grin and arms crossed, coming to lean into me and let me know that, really, the silly charade was done. Time for me to give up this little moving-out thing and come home. Hinted that he’d forgive me when I came to my senses and remembered how good I had it with him. When I realized what a mistake I almost made, leaving, giving up on him, getting all upset about a little fling.

And now:
L showing up in court, for our divorce, and asking if I was “ok,” ready with a hand on my back, to comfort. Sitting inches away, behind me, laughing as he said we should start making out. That would freak out everyone in the courtroom, wouldn’t it? and then, after the divorce was final, after I’d answered the judge’s final question: “is this marriage dead?” with a frozen-faced yes, asking if I’d like to walk across the street for a quick tour of his new office. Leaning in. cocky. Asking for a hug.

Then:
Finding new pain in the knowledge that he was flaunting the affair around the office and at a party with his colleagues, our friends.

And Now:
Finding the courage to go to that same party, this year’s version, alone. Knowing I’d be faced with his colleagues, our former “couple friends,” who I hadn’t seen in over a year.

Finding some level of healing on learning that they KNOW about the affair. They KNOW it wasn’t my fault the marriage ended. They clucked. They gossiped. They said he was crazy. They talked about her: an overgrown wannabe prom queen on weight watchers. They rumored that his leaving his newspaper job was NOT entirely his choice, maybe he was asked to leave, the affair was a scandal.

She emailed me a few days later. “I heard you were talking about me behind my back at that party. Is there something you want to say to my face? He left you because he didn’t want to be married to you anymore. It had nothing to do with me.”

I resisted the urge to ask if she knew how often he’s contacted me, apologetic, over the last year.

I resisted the urge to remind her she’s married with two young children and hardly in a position to send me catty jealous girly emails.

I resisted the urge to ask her if she knows her colleagues aren’t falling for her dressed-in-all-black-for-slimming-effect look.

Instead, I said no, thanks, I heard all I needed to hear. No need for us to talk. But thanks for the offer. Smiley face icon.

Then:
Signing up for match.com, building a careful checklist for the perfect mate. Having fun ruling out matches based on his favorite restaurants.

And now:
Signing up for more time. Admitting I’m further from “ready” than I was a year ago.

Sticks and Stones Will Break My Bones

When I am nervous, when I am stressed, when my confidence is bruised, when I’m trying too hard or spinning too fast, I think, in rhythms, over and over: not good enough. Do it better. Try harder. Go faster.

In these times, the focus is control.

At my best, I don’t worry about pulling everything tight. I wake a little later. I unwind in front of tivo instead of my laptop. I revel in a piece of dark chocolate. I don’t need makeup and i’m satisfied with the first outfit I put on. i don’t rush, I have time to be by myself. Hunks of time, where there are pieces big enough to stretch out, savor, alone.

At my worst, I’m late for everything despite waking up before my alarm clock. I work harder than other days and it’s not good enough.

on these days, I open my eyes and immediately put both hands on my hip bones. It’s important to measure my hips and their bones. Feeling sharpness there is good. Feeling full flesh before bone is not.

On strong days, I want to be healthy and there isn’t room to worry about hip bones.

On other days, hips are very important. A measure of strength and focus and dedication.

On strong days, I try new foods and savor the taste and don’t worry that people are doubting my discipline.

Other days, everything is measured against the potential to put on a pound. What will people think about that visible weakness. Failure. Letting the details slip.

I should have married a man who made me forget to check my hipbones.

Six weeks before the wedding, my mom went with me to a dress fitting. She had tears in her eyes when I slipped my clothes off, before I stepped in the dress. “Don’t lose anymore weight, hon,” she said. I had marks for my ribs and my hips were at their sharpest.

Break Down.
Don’t You Break Down.
Listen To Me
It’s Just A Ride
Don’t Dry Your Eyes

I have a best friend with a broken heart and it’s sucker punched me back to august, when my marriage ended in one fast minute.

She was officially the first to see me, tear-streaked and faded and weak. She was sitting on the porch when I pulled into her driveway, holding out an icy drink. There was homemade guacamole in the fridge. Pajamas clean and folded. She let me sleep in her big bed with her.

Early the next morning, she didn’t cringe or scold or judge when I crept outside with her cordless phone and called my husband, crying, begging him to talk to me, tell me why, tell me he loved me. She handed me a cup of coffee when I came inside and used “he was never any good on the phone” as a gentle intro to what she said next: “You deserve so much better than this.”

She was right.

I’m in brazil and I can’t hand her a drink or tuck her in or sit on her deck while she plants flowers in her perfect garden. I can’t do anything to splint her wings or underline all the things that make her strong.

A few weeks after I moved out, I was here, in this very room in this very hotel, looking out the window at this biggest longest city I’ve ever seen and crying because my husband wouldn’t pick up the phone and call me. I left him messages. I sent him long emails about what he meant to me, how I couldn’t imagine a life without him. He answered with short notes saying he didn’t want to have some big serious talk but he’d love to go out for wings sometime, a weeknight. He missed having dinners with me.

I stopped sending messages months ago. Stopped wanting to tell him things. Stopped wanting him to listen. Stopped wanting to hear from him. Started feeling revolted that i'd ever been with him at all.

And his tone hasn't changed at all. The only difference is that now, his drivel comes in floods:
Will I meet him for salad?
For a drink?
To talk?
Is that my new car in the parking lot at the gym?
Have I seen the new show about models on MTV?
Guess what? I’m on an airplane to florida. Track my flight, you know how I hate to fly!

Tonight, I stood in front of the window and saw big brazil again. Without tears, it’s the same scene, but markedly different. Brighter. Longer. Bigger. Unblurred.