There's this gazillionaire golfer all over the news right now. He's made explosive headlines for the past decade -- but nothing like this. Apparently he's been cheating on his gorgeous blonde wife for years, and with several women at that. I'm not paying attention -- I am purposely NOT paying attention, I should say -- but I've heard that there about a dozen now who claim to have slept with him.
I've heard my guy friends say they're surprised because these women aren't really attractive ("He could do so MUCH better than that!" they exclaim). My girlfriends seem to wonder why these "other women" are not more accomplished or from "better" backgrounds. My husband, a golf enthusiast who, unlike me, has been paying very close attention to this story, throws around the term "ragdoll" every time one of these women appear on TV -- in reference to the athlete's preference for rough-and-tumble sex apparently.
As for me, I started tuning off when the women began to come forward with their stories and proof straight from their cellphones. If the story is on the news, I change the channel or walk away; if it's on print I don't read it. I don't even know the names of these women -- and I prefer it that way. And here's why.
If a woman's going to have an affair with a married man, if she's going to insinuate herself between him and his wife, the only decent thing left for her to do -- I believe -- is to simply shut up. Not for his sake surely, but for his wife and (any) children. If she wants only sex from him, then she's getting it anyway. If she wants money or material things, she's probably receiving that, too. If she wants him only for herself, then letting his wife know about the affair will not serve her purpose because it will only get him incredibly annoyed and she'll never have him that way.
My concern isn't for this famous wayward husband, but rather for the innocents -- his wife and kids and the rest of their families, who are now subject to constant public humiliation, thanks to all the gory details being revealed practically every hour. (Seriously, if you were the wife who found out that her husband was cheating on her, would you really want to know everything?) These other women who for the past week have dominated the daily news aren't coming forward for honesty's sake (the act of cheating with a married man alone already stripped them of any semblance of honesty, let's face it), but for what they can get for their brief moment of infamy.
I was walking by the living room the other day while my husband was listening to one of the women explain how betrayed she felt at discovering she wasn't the only one in his life as there were many others also. She continued to say that she often wondered why he never had much time for her; she thought it was only because of the demands of his career.
I stopped right in my tracks and yelled at the TV: "What you stupid whore? You thought you were the ONLY ONE? What about his wife, you idiot?"
Sorry, but I'm never going to listen to any sob story told by any mistress; I just won't hear of it. When a woman chooses to get involved with a man who belongs to another, she knows exactly what she's getting into. His wife, however, may not have had the fortune of such clarity when she married him. So I don't listen and I don't read anything about this story because I don't want a single television program or publication to profit from my patronage. I also hope that when no one else is paying attention anymore, that these women (and their new lawyers and agents) finally go away silently in the night, where they should have stayed in the first place.
Just recently, thanks to the amazing reach of Facebook, an old friend and I found each other. I don't know if he remembers but the last time I saw him wasn't a good moment for us. One sunny afternoon about 25 years ago, he had put his hand on my knee and I quickly brushed it off, and we couldn't look at each other afterward. Yet the last time we were together before this, which was months and months before, we'd kissed and said goodbye, promising to keep in touch. We didn't, or at least not continuously until the next time we were together again, like we said we would.
But that wasn't the reason for my brush-off: it was because by now I was seeing someone else who didn't like other guys touching me at all. And, like the idiot I was then, I thought that obeying my boyfriend's wishes was only the right thing to do. I don't know what my friend had thought of my rebuff; after all, earlier that year he had touched me much more intimately than he had tried to do so that afternoon. And it wasn't inside a stark campus organization office like we were sitting inside now either -- we had been on his bed, in his darkened room, inside the campus apartment he shared with another student instead.
I can't remember now if he had considered me his girlfriend, nor do I recall if he ever said he loved me even if there was certainly much affection between us. See, although he spoke English well enough to study in the US, he thought in his own language and oftentimes what he said and what I'd tell him would get completely lost in translation. There were times we'd argue stubbornly without being close to any kind of resolution until I'd realize we were fighting because of how we had defined a single word that one of us had used casually. Many words -- like love, for instance -- are defined and understood according to one's experience and world view. Now think of two people who learned how to speak English in two different foreign countries and you realize how a straightforward sentence can get so utterly complicated.
Still overall, language notwithstanding, we got along fine. I'd met all his friends, he took me to their dinners and parties, and we spent a lot of time together. He was a good guy -- kind, well-liked by everyone, down-to-earth, and solid. He had an inner strength that I lacked at that time, which is probably what drew me to him in the first place.
Going back to that night in his room. Before I showed up at his door I had just been with the boy who had recently broken my heart, which I had then foolishly handed back so he could promptly squish it this time around. I called my friend to see if I could come over; I never told him that I was completely in pieces, that I didn't want to be alone and I needed his strength. And so I wasn't alone that night, just like I'd hoped, but not how I'd planned. Inside my friend's bathroom, right after I pulled myself away from him, I sat there as if I never wanted to come out again. Underneath the harsh fluorescent glare, sitting on the toilet, I cried my broken and squished heart out, hoping he wouldn't hear me. For many years I pointed to this night as the lowest moment of my life -- not because of my friend, not because he was there, but because on his bed and in his room I wasn't quite there. I had lost myself completely, I had absolutely no self-esteem.
I often wondered what happened to him. He told me that he went back to his country a few years later and suffered a few major setbacks along the way. He said he'd lost his love, but added that he's fine now though still single. I was really sad when he spoke of his loss; I always thought a guy like him deserved so much love and care, the kind I couldn't possibly give him.
Then he mentioned that I'd put on a bit of weight since he last saw me (had he realized that we were barely out of our teenage years back then and that we were now -- gasp -- middle-aged?). "I want to see my Gigi back to the way she was before," he teased. My Gigi. He still knew how to be sweet right after pushing my buttons.
"I'll never be that thin again," I replied. "But I've been losing weight steadily and will be looking good again soon, don't you worry."
"You weren't thin, just sexy." he insisted. I blushed, realizing that he was doing some remembering of his own now.
I reckon that my friend and I are still lost in translation; this time, our definition of the simple word "thin" is separated by some 20 pounds. But no matter, now that we've found each other, now that I've found myself, and now that we have time on our side, I think we'll figure out a way to create our own dictionary -- and define the word "friend" again for ourselves, one that works this time around.
When my mind starts spinning, when I become a jumble of emotions and can't sort out what I need or want to do, I get dizzy and then lie down. Eventually, even if it takes a while, I get up and start writing.
Some people work out, others eat, and there are those who need to talk things through. Me -- I can't move or eat or talk until my mind is clear enough to do any of these things. Usually what helps me get through the muddle so I can carve out my exit plan is to write a letter. A letter which, more often than not, I don't send to the person I'm writing to because I never planned to in the first place.
Sometimes I wish I'd kept copies of these discarded letters; they represent my most honest self, I'm certain of it. Within the pages I've simply expressed myself without processing any of my thoughts and feelings through a crazy filter. I may have edited them for spelling and grammar (yes, I do this even if I know they'll never be read), but not for content. I'm sure if anyone else got hold of them they would think I'd clearly lost my head -- because that would be the truth, at least for the moment that I was writing in a frenzy of uncontrolled rage, frustration, confusion, sadness, but even love. After all, I've thought a lot of nutty things in my lifetime but I know better than to say them out loud. Well -- maybe that's not so true either, since I have this blog that can (sadly) prove otherwise.
The last time I remember writing such a letter I was trying not to fall in love, or at least I was struggling to talk myself out of it. Nothing about the situation made sense at the time -- not the guy, not the timing, not even the reasons I felt the way I did. But as I got through to the end I finally realized why I felt all that longing, all that fear -- and then eventually I didn't feel so crazy anymore.
But here's the really crazy part: I sent the letter.
I'd rather not discuss the consequences of my senseless decision, especially since somewhere out there is a man who has hard-copy evidence that once, because of him, I lost control and went into an emotional tailspin. The good news, however, is that once I got everything off my chest I regained my composure and started thinking more clearly again. The bad news, of course, is that because of my letter he was able to see through all my posturing to know I was confused, afraid, and possibly still in love even if I never admitted it.
So the moral of the story, boys and girls, is that if ever you find yourself wanting to say something to someone when you know you shouldn't, write it down anyway. And then burn the damn thing before you feel the urge to mail it. Or perhaps I should say instead, in this age of electronic mail, that once you've got it all down and feel a bit of relief from the release, hit "delete" before you click on "send." Trust me on this: no one needs to know you were crazy, especially when they can prove that you were.
Every year I visit my family and friends in Manila and stay for about 10 days. It's never quite enough, always too short, and something always has to give. Every year I make a list of people I'd like to catch up with, but usually -- if I'm lucky -- I get to meet up with only half of them. And every year, on top of my list, is always Rosanna. If you've been following this blog for even a short while, you'd know why.
Whenever I visit, Rosanna bids her husband a temporary adieu and spends the remainder of the time that she's not tutoring her children with their schoolwork or taking them to doctors, with me. She's at the house the day I arrive and helps keep jet lag from robbing any of my precious time by keeping me up until midnight, so that when I awake in the morning I'm up and running again.
We go through her schedule and she asks me what I'd like to do. I often plan my one-on-ones with friends when she's not available, and then she and I meet up together with all of our common friends. At the end of my trip I always feel happy knowing that I've caught up with my best friend, until my next visit again.
But this year, about halfway through my trip, I received a text message from her and immediately felt my heart leap and get stuck in my throat. She wanted to schedule an appointment with me so that we could spend a bit of one-on-one time of our own together; she felt that all she'd been doing thus far was tag along to wherever I needed or wanted to go.
I stared at my phone: how could I have been so dumb? She was right -- just because two people are together physically doesn't mean they're necessarily connecting on any deeper or meaningful level. I was taking her presence for granted, the way we normally (and wrongly) do with our families. Just because she's always been present in my life, I saw her the way we often view landmarks in our cities: without them our home is never quite the same but we simply assume they will always be there. In a way she was no different from the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty -- the cities they represent certainly wouldn't be the same without them, but how often do the residents bother to revisit and try to see them in a new or different light?
I told Rosanna once that if she were to ever leave Manila then my yearly visits wouldn't ever be the same; it would no longer quite feel like coming home even if my parents and sister still live there. There would be a gaping hole where she once was, it would be like staring at a familiar skyline and knowing that something's missing.
So I texted her back -- no appointment needed, just tell me when you're free and I'm open. And so during this trip my best friend and I simply sat and talked with no distractions. I learned new -- and surprising -- things about her, and we shared things that had happened to us years ago while we were apart. She was new to me again, as I was to her. And by the end of the trip, as I sat at the airport lounge waiting for my flight to board it hit me so hard: I was really leaving home.
This is my 500th post within the span of almost exactly five years. Never thought I'd make it this far when I first started -- but I'm glad I did.
I've documented almost every embarrassing moment and failure in my life, though interestingly enough not every triumph or victory. The former always makes more interesting reading anyway, and the latter just feels too self-serving and pompous. By the way, why is that so -- considering that personal bloggers are accused of being narcissistic blowhards anyway? I suppose we simply appear less full of ourselves when we prick holes into our souls.
I have no idea of how many of my relationships I've written about (serious ones or otherwise), but a few of the men who have appeared on this blog have now read what I remember about them and/or us. So far no one has disputed my recollection of events, which brings me considerable relief, and a few have even expressed their appreciation for my efforts. Although A's recent feedback to me was that I have the memory of a digital camcorder, I suspect that the others are just going along with my recollections because they have few or none left of their own. For instance, R (whom I dated 25 years ago) said that he found himself nodding "Oo nga, oo nga (that's right)" toward the end of my story -- which indicates to me that he'd forgotten a bit of what transpired between us way back then.
The next bit of feedback always surprises me: as R put it, "Why so PG?" He said a little bit of spice would have been nice. I explained that my intention was not to maintain a sex blog, which seemed to disappoint him slightly even if said he was merely joking. A was even more blunt: "Why didn't you mention how I'd asked you if you were horny on the drive back to your place that night?" Uh, because I didn't want to remember that part, that's why (shaking my head).
This all got me thinking of how I'd feel or react if an ex-boyfriend of mine kept a blog and wrote about our sexual life in detail. I'd be horrified, I suspect, even if I were identified only as a semi-random initial (as I do here). But going back to what I was saying originally, would anyone really want to know what I thought or remembered about THAT part of our relationship anyway? Isn't anyone afraid that I might have simply been (too) polite in real life? OK I'm kidding. Maybe (insert smiley face here).
I'm wondering now where the next 500 posts will take me. I'm planning huge changes in my life starting next year, which might even entail my having to fly through the air without a net below. In the meantime I'm mulling over decisions I need to make in order to take flight. One thing for sure is that I'm not quite the same person I was when I started this blog, which only means I probably will be a different one at the end of the next 500 posts, too. Only change, I suppose, is ever constant in life. Well, that -- and the fact that there won't be any kind of heavy breathing here anytime soon. Sorry, boys.
I was warned to be careful, that someone with a bone to pick with me might start a massive smear campaign against my reputation, the way she often does with anyone she views as an enemy or threat.
I sat still, unperturbed. First of all I'm not worth her time; I'm simply not in the mood to fight because I don't see a battle worth waging here. I don't think I'm an important enough trophy for her to win either.
Second, I asked my concerned friend, what could she possibly say against me that I haven't written about myself first? You're absolutely right, she said, and then she leaned back against her chair.
Thanks to the relative permanence of my blog (yep, once posted online it's there forever unfortunately) I'll never be a politician, a kindergarten teacher, a Catholic anything, and certainly not a marriage counselor. There will be men thinking I'm an easy lay (but only if they're not reading carefully) and women wondering if their daughters will ever become like me, for better or for worse.
I've got to admit, if I'm going to remain honest here, that there are things that can be said or written about me that can hurt still. Most of them can be easily waved away once I can get my ego and vanity in check; the rest are simply false.
There won't be any fight here. It's simply no fun trying to shoot bullets at someone who's already riddled with holes and yet is still left standing.
"You're like a man," my friend Rosanna said to me quietly.
I had just finished telling her how easy it was for me to separate love from sex. You get them mixed up, I said, and you get into more trouble, if not heartbreak. Best to know the difference then. She asked me the obvious follow-up question: have I ever had one without the other? Yes, in fact, both sex and love without the other, for different reasons, at different times.
The sex part is easier; being literally naked is easier -- and I say this fully aware of the potential for irony here, given my laughable fear of being seen in public wearing a swimsuit. I find the love part can get messy, and that being emotionally naked is a dangerous gamble with forces beyond my control. And yet I say all of this believing that deep inside of me lies the soul of an unabashed romantic: I'm still waiting for my Lloyd Dobler to show up outside my bedroom window wearing a trenchcoat, holding a boombox way up in the air.
Then I think back to the last time I had to make that distinction between love and sex, which now seems like a lifetime ago. My friend A and I were hanging out at his apartment after dinner, listening to music and talking about our respective relationships. He was clearly on edge and I kept trying to keep the mood relaxed and easy. At one point late in the evening I was tempted to throw my arms around him and hold him tight, to tell him not to worry about anything. But while I was thinking about it I discovered, with slight horror, that I might not want to let go. And then I was on edge.
When it was time for him to take me home, he joked as we were waiting for the lift to arrive, "I told you that you should have slept over tonight instead." I said something about his couch not being good enough for me. "Who said you were going to sleep on the couch?" he asked. I think he might have even said his bed was large enough for both of us, but I don't remember, my brain was spinning out of control.
"That would be too dangerous," I replied softly as we walked into the elevator. He looked at me, and I felt his curious gaze burn my face (or maybe my cheeks were merely hot from thinking about what I didn't want to think about). Inside that small empty space we found ourselves at opposite ends, unsure of what to say next. It was the same way walking through the garage, and even after we climbed up into his SUV. I remember bits and pieces of questions and monosyllabic answers, but I wasn't paying attention to what we were saying, only to what I was supposed to be thinking.
On the dark, empty road he asked me, "Would we regret it if we didn't turn around the car now and head back to my place?" No, I said (it sounded like a plea, I think), and I silently thought, "Please get me home before everything changes." And then we were outside my place. My right leg wanted to jump out and run for safety but my left desired to stay a bit longer and be next to his.
He hugged me goodnight but he held on tighter than good friends do. I inhaled the scent of his skin and felt my heart throb against his in fast rhythm. And then we kissed, ever so softly. It's funny how you think you know a guy and then discover his lips are softer than you might have expected. It's funnier, though, when you realize you've never even thought of his lips before.
This might sound like the start of your typical love story, but it wasn't, not in the slightest bit. A and I did end up crossing boundaries but we didn't do so without a quickly scrawled road map. I told him I wasn't going to fall in love with him; he said he wasn't worth falling in love with anyway. And then we fell into each other, confident that we'd placed both our hearts on the night table before we did.
I can't say there was no tenderness between us; in fact, there was much more than I'd bargained for. Perhaps it was the friendship between us, the unyielding honesty and openness we'd already shared. Maybe it was because we trusted that we'd each take care that the other's heart remained intact. Perhaps with A sex did commingle with love, just not the kind that expects happy endings, the kind that ends with both of us happily coming home to the other at the end of a long day. There was simply no way that would ever happen with him and me simply because of who we were, where we were, and possibly of where we each were headed in our lives. I suppose when you grow up you sometimes discover that love -- romantic love, at least -- doesn't conquer everything, and so you don't even try.
A and I are still good friends even if the nature of our friendship was inevitably altered. Sometimes, when I receive a message from him, usually funny or touching in some way as always, I think: "I am still not in love with you." As for him, he's usually off on one of his many adventures, still not the kind of man to fall in love with. In a way he's like Dobler outside my window, but neither one of us ever taking a step to be with the other. It's almost like the non-romantic, non-love story where the romance never ends because it never really started; a boy-meets-girl that stops right then and there.
I was on the phone tonight with a close friend who's about to go through a divorce. We spent an hour talking about love and marriage, expectations and communication, and everything else you'd expect to touch on when discussing any relationship -- especially one that's lasted for almost two decades.
I used to think that if someone really loved me then he'd be so in tune with my feelings and my needs, so much so that I wouldn't have to constantly tell him how I felt or what I needed. He would get me, simply because he was supposed to know me best, because he was the one who cared the most, because he would want to know.
Fortunately, I no longer think this way. I don't believe that anyone was put on this earth to make me happy or that any of us exist for someone else's benefit. That being said, however, I do believe that if I choose to exist in a relationship with a person, it has to be because both of us have the same desire to make each other's life better in some way, and in doing so become better individuals ourselves. Or else why bother?
So anyway, I was telling my friend about how I married a man with almost no natural romantic inclinations to speak of. I mean, get this -- I actually had to tell my husband, when we first started dating seriously, that it would be a nice thing to receive a card on my birthday -- and preferably one written out with more than just his signature. I also mentioned that a gift would be appreciated -- but no, it didn't have to be fancy. One would think that I'd immediately dump a guy who was too dense to know to do these things instinctively, but I didn't because I realized that these simple tokens of affection -- which I had assumed were universally understood -- were way beyond his comprehension. So I gave him the benefit of the doubt, ate my pride, and simply told him what would make me happy.
Here's the thing that made me stick around: he got it. Sure, his first few attempts were clumsy, even pathetic. But he kept at it. Soon enough he started picking out cards that were sweet, even romantic, and then he started giving me one from the cat as well. And just when I told him to give me gift cards because his talents were clearly not in the gift-giving department (shoe rack, Weber grill...), he pulled off a miracle a few years ago and gave me something I never dared to even hope for. He said the reason it took so long was because he was looking for just the perfect one. And it was.
My husband will never write me a romantic letter or sing to me as we cuddle during a gondola ride (or go on a gondola ride, for that matter). He won't ever hide a ring for me inside a champagne flute or tell me he loves me in public. But what he'll do is listen when I want to talk to him about something "serious," or be there when I say I need him, and interrupt his nap to haul our heavy ladder out of the garage into the garden to climb up and rescue the neighbor's kittens because I tell him I'm afraid they'll freeze out in the cold.
So my friend and I ended our conversation. I'd chosen to miss the teleserye I'd been following faithfully for weeks because I knew he needed me muchmore than I needed to know the latest plot twist. As I turned off my phone and began walking over to the living room to join my husband on the couch, I glanced at the TV in hopes that I could catch even a final scene. No such luck -- but something infinitely more amazing occured: I was surprised to discover that my husband had been watching my show -- the one which he swears he can't stand and that he constantly makes fun of. When I sat down beside him he told me everything I'd missed, or at least in as much detail as he could muster (which quite frankly is less descriptive than any given book's Table of Contents) because he knew that I'd want to know what happened.
And that, my friends, was the love letter I received from him tonight. Its words had nothing to do with us -- and yet it had everything that mattered.
It's been a month since I last posted anything and, judging from my blog stats that Typepad so kindly keeps track of, people seem to think I've gone away completely. In the meantime, I've discovered a few great products and terrific songs -- but I've had no one to share them with. Which partly explains why I'm back. Raving about my newest favorite hair product on Facebook can make me seem a tad bit manic, you know?
Another thing I discovered during my absence is that the more friends I add to my Facebook list, the longer I meander and skulk around that site. Obviously, when I'm there I'm not here. At the other place, all my favorite reads, brands, and stores update me with what's hot and new without my having to click over to their own sites as well, which makes me stay there even longer. And when you consider all the photos, links, and videos that my friends share (and which I invariably explore) it's a bit of a miracle that I have any kind of offline life at all.
Sometimes the most intense and interesting conversations I engage in happen over at Facebook chat. And, yes, I've wondered why the other person and I don't simply pick up the phone and actually talk with one another. I suspect that the answer is related to why personal blogs ever became popular in the first place: sometimes it's easier to be so exposed when no one can actually see you doing any real exposing. I tend to think of Facebook chat (as well as any kind of instant messenger communication) as online frottage, or dry-humping: it feels really intimate, the excitement is there, both parties can feel pretty satisfied -- but the connection is still limited because of its very nature.
Many other bloggers I used to share space with have now abandoned their sites for the greater intimacy and immediacy of Facebook. Some of them I can call my friends now -- or at least, they're now my Facebook friends -- and I'm even familiar with how a few of them spend their days (and especially their nights). But I do miss blogging (how old-fashioned the term feels now, 'no?). I miss posting whatever I feel like on my very own space without knowing who might be lurking about -- or if anyone's even still around. Why, I think of many of the stories I've shared over here and realize that all this (relative) anonymity brings along with it so much freedom.
Please pardon my sexual references here tonight, but I suppose blogging, given my reasons for doing it, can sometimes feel like the online equivalent of a zipless fuck. I write, you (hopefully) read, but because I don't really know you're there, I'm not trying to impress or manipulate you. And hopefully, in the end, we both get something out of it.
If you're still reading this, thanks for hanging around. Hopefully, you're also taking a break from Facebook and have decided to catch up with me here instead.
Well, people got used to seeing them both together
But now he's gone and life goes on
Nothing lasts forever, oh no
She gets the house and the garden
He gets the boys in the band
Some of them his friends
Some of them her friends
Some of them understand- Lyrics from "Her Town, Too" by James Taylor
When you're married, everything -- with the exception of the most personal of personal effects such as underwear, toothbrush, and (hopefully) deodorant -- falls under the large "Ours" umbrella. So if a marriage ends, trying to sort out just what belongs to whom can be as tricky as trying to sort out raindrops. In the end you might simply have to hold your bucket out and see what lands inside of it.
Still nothing, at least from my experience, is more complicated than sorting out the people whom the couple used to share. We've read of celebrities who have had to battle out who got to keep, say, the yoga instructor. Unfortunately, if the divorce is particularly acrimonious then it's not entirely possible for friends, especially close ones, to stay completely neutral. A line is drawn in the middle and everyone gets to step on either side, no matter how hesitant or tentative they are about doing so.
A friend of mine (X) and his wife (Y) divorced a few years ago yet the sorting process still continues. Originally, they were my husband's friends and became mine, too. We were their friends, they were ours, all under the same umbrella.I soon realized that a split was imminent when I became a mutual sounding board for each one and discovered that each wanted different things for themselves and that they couldn't provide what the other expected, wanted, or needed. Without going into unnecessary detail, my husband and I moved solidly and unflinchingly to X's corner when something Y did made us realize that she had no intentions of playing fair, even if she was the one who fell in love with someone else. She sorted us out, so to speak.
But for the rest of our friends, the remainder of our once-happy group who celebrated holidays and occasions together and hung out for no reason at all except to enjoy each other's company, it wasn't so easy. One of us, Z, who had known X since grade school, became Y's confidante; he was even at the wedding reception when she married the man she fell in love with while she was still married the first time -- to Z's own lifelong friend. Even if he refuses to acknowledge it, Z has also chosen his side of the line, at least from X's viewpoint.
When my ex and I divorced, one couple wished to remain neutral but my ex would have none of it. The husbands had been childhood friends, you see, and so they stepped over to the other side. I believed then, as I do now, that they made the right decision and I actually respected them for it. At the time I figured that eventually, as everyone moved on with their lives and started anew, we'd reconnect again if the bond between us was truly strong. We never did (or at least we haven't yet). In the meantime, I never tried to contact them or anyone else in my ex-husband's corner, never tried to explain "my" side of the story. It didn't matter to me what they thought -- and not because I didn't care. In the end, my ex and I left only with what we came with, although we valued what we had so much more.
You might think that I see things in black and white, but I don't. I view life in various shades of grey, but I do see the farthest ends of the entire spectrum along with the middle. I was talking to X today and explained that Z certainly never meant to hurt him, but that possibly what was more important to him was remaining everyone's friend, or at least trying to look as if he is. His actions and even some of his words, however, belie his professed neutrality. Still, what Z also might not realize is that when you stand for everything, you stand for absolutely nothing in the end. Which might be all well and good if it really were the case -- but how often are we really? Even raindrops, when they fall, land somewhere.
Sometimes I find myself wondering just when I became a grown-up. I don't think there's one particular moment, event, or year when this happens; I suspect it occurs over a series of all of the above, culminating in that time when you realize that you and only you are responsible for everything that happens to you and the choices that you make. Given that definition I suppose that some, unfortunately, never do grow up despite whatever traditional signs of adulthood they may possess.
The first time I grew up was when I decided that I couldn't love the way I used to -- with complete abandon, giving all of myself, feeling that I needed to love someone the same way I needed to breathe. It's simply too all-consuming, reckless even, and I always found myself not having anything left for myself when it ended (and alas it always ends). But having said that, I don't regret a single moment of when I did, not even when I found myself a little bit more broken than the last time. Perhaps because it's only when I've been splintered that I've been able to find it within myself to get up, fix myself, and become even less fragile.
I was going to write a story today, but sometime in the early evening life happened and I ended up with a wholly different ending. The funny thing is that I'd written this story before, from beginning to end, but realized just tonight that I'd been seeing it from the eyes of a young adult who thought she knew exactly how the narrative went.
A long time ago I fell in love against my better judgment, but I did anyway. See, the one thing about me that's never changed -- despite everything -- is that the only decisions I truly regret are of what I didn't do when I could have, versus the choices I made that turned out to be the wrong ones. I can live with making mistakes, but I find it difficult to keep wondering "what if?"
The thing about running into someone from your past, someone whom you were certain you'd never see again, is that the ending you thought you wrote can still change, even if it happened more than two decades ago. Tonight I discovered that I'd been played, and exceedingly well at that, and what I thought was true was really only in my head.
Although I suppose it doesn't matter now -- the decision I made then was always the right one and both he and I went on with our lives, and for the better. And yet that young heart of mine, the one that still exists even if only in memory, hurts like it used to. The one that's in me now, however, the one that was broken and fixed several times over, knows that it will be OK soon enough and I'll even congratulate myself for walking away when I did and for all the right reasons then -- and now. I'll even be grateful that he and I crossed paths again, not because I thought I needed closure but because now I see ever more clearly.
Tonight I became a grown-up again.