2018 Year in Review

1. What did you do in 2018 that you’d never done before?

This sounds so lame, but 2018 was the first year that I got up early, took an exercise class, showered and got ready for work at the gym. Seriously, I had to talk myself off a ledge the night before: “If you don’t like it, Christianne, YOU NEVER HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN. No one will be staring at you or thinking you’re weird. They will be focused on themselves. GET YOUR HEAD RIGHT.”

It turns out, I loved it and felt energized all day. Don’t get me wrong – this is not going to become a 7-day-a-week thing. I heart sleep.

But it could be a once-a-week thing.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I rarely make resolutions. Instead I set goals. (Honestly, I’m not sure how these are different.) But in 2018 my husband Sterling and I made vision boards and hung them in our bedroom. Among other things, I had a 4Runner, a corner office and a dollar figure on my salary. THEY HAPPENED.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

My friend Alison had her daughter in March, and I got to meet her in November. She’s a little doll!

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No, but our beloved cat Batman almost did. Our dog Silver hurt his leg somehow and we were initially worried that he had a degenerative knee issue. Corner Vet prescribed some medicine for the dog but failed to mention that it’s highly toxic in large doses. Because cats are so much smaller than dogs, it’s much worse for them. Batman jumped on the counter when I was feeding Silver and ate half of a dose. My back was turned for less than a minute. I immediately swatted the medicine from his mouth, but the damage was done. Two days later, he was near kidney failure and in kitty ICU. I will never forget standing outside of a Starbucks where I had settled in to wait and work on my laptop after dropping him off, the vet’s voice on the phone, telling me how high the kidney values were. It was bad. It was catastrophic.

“Are you telling me that my cat might not live?” I managed to sob. I could tell the answer was probably yes, but he didn’t want to say it.

I got in the 4Runner and called my husband, describing in more sobbing, hitching breaths what had happened. The worst part was that I had messed up by leaving the medicine on the counter. “I killed him,” I wailed. He told me it wasn’t my fault, that it was just a mistake, that Batman would be okay. But my heart was absolutely breaking.

Batman spent four days in ICU. We didn’t ask what it would cost to save him. We just asked the vets to do everything in their power to try.

He made it. In fact, his last diagnosis had him almost back to normal, so much that I heard incredulity in the vet’s voice.

5. What countries did you visit?

I didn’t leave the USA this year, but I went basically everywhere else!

6. What would you like to have in 2019 that you lacked in 2018?

My life and my heart are full! I am so grateful and lucky that I have everything I want and need, but if I have to choose something, I want more quality friends like Gigi and Madame V. I am working on this (see below!) and making progress, so I have high hopes for 2019.

7. What dates from 2018 will remain etched upon your memory?

November 6: the Blue Wave that ushered in a historical House of Representatives victory. And even though Beto lost, he inspired so many. I think he’s going places. Maybe even the White House.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Professionally: I got a promotion, a raise and a new corner office (hello vision board!) and hired my first employee. I manage a team of just one, but I’m so grateful that she not only loves her job and loves working for me, but tells me these things. Sterling always said I would be a great manager, and I hope every day I’m proving him right.

Personally, I made big strides in my relationship with my brother Jerry. Last year, same question, here was a part of my answer:

I had a falling out and difficult time with my brother. Life hasn’t been easy for either of us, but standing my ground and knowing I handled the situation well was a good lesson. Talking to my therapist about this (hi Kathaleen!) and hearing her words of wisdom and comfort was like wrapping myself in a warm blanket of love and reassurance. She told me that I deserve my good life, and I’ve worked hard for it. They were words I didn’t realize I needed so badly to hear.

Jerry and I didn’t talk much throughout 2018. He did his thing, and I did mine. In October, I was visiting my parents when my mom told me he was moving to Chicago. Because he has a dog, he would be driving instead of flying. Offhandedly, I said, “Road tripping isn’t really his thing; it’s more mine. I wonder if he wants help driving.” She beamed at me: “He would love that.” I rolled my eyes, thinking, “He most certainly would not.”

Regardless, I texted him and offered to help. He wrote back so quickly I saw the tiny dots that indicate someone is typing an immediate response. “That would be awesome and it’s so kind of you to offer.”

A month later, we had made the arrangements and the trip was upon us: 16 hours from Houston, starting Friday afternoon at 5 p.m. The goal was to reach Chicago by dinner Saturday night, and then I would fly home Sunday afternoon at 4 p.m. I had scheduled a ton of trips (see below) so I couldn’t take any extra days off work.

Jerry pulled up in a rented Ford Expedition with all his earthly possessions, including the dog. In the driveway, he said to my husband, “Thanks for letting me borrow her.”

Friday night we stayed in a Motel 6 in Marshall Texas. It was so fancy that I was surprised there was hot water in my room. I also found leftover Subway sandwiches in the refrigerator (mini bar?). Saturday morning at 6 a.m., we were back on the road trading 3-hour shifts of driving.

We rolled triumphantly into Chicago proper at 7:30 p.m. Saturday night, after 17 hours of music, Google maps, Starbucks, jokes, FaceTime with our parents, Spotify, podcasts, talks about why Chicago, our jobs, dating, trips down memory lane, facts about Texas, Arkansas, Missouri and Illinois’s state flowers, insects, and more.

Sunday afternoon we brunched and parted ways after sending a selfie and a few texts to my mother, who said we made her “heart sing.” Days later, Jerry told me that the trip was almost as cathartic as the move itself, my friends and my husband told me I was one of the strongest people I knew, and I realized they were right.

9. What was your biggest failure?

This is the same answer as 2017: Not being kind enough to myself. I kept a pretty accurate tally of every time I fell short, drank too much, ate the wrong thing, said something stupid to my husband, my boss or my friends.

Being mature about college football.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I took a spill in A-Bay on our spring trip and hyperextended my knee. I heard the pop, felt some pain as I navigated the rest of the double black run (!) and thought I had torn my ACL. I ignored it, hoped for the best, but Sterling convinced me I needed to see a doctor. Reluctantly, terrified of bad news, I went in August. The doctor examined me, made a face and said, “I think it’s your ACL, but let’s do an MRI before we jump to conclusions.” I was kicking myself for the second time in 2018 – first I had screwed up with the cat, and now I had potentially wrecked my knee without time to fix it before ski season began in December.

The MRI showed a partial tear of the ACL, and my heart dropped in my chest. I asked a bazillion questions and received answers I didn’t like.

“Well of course you’ll need to brace your knee when you ski.”

“For how long?”

“Well, forever.”

Heartbroken? Um, yeah.

My hubby came through yet again with a recommendation from a friend in med school for a second opinion. The day of my appointment, I thought that I’d go in with a positive attitude, but be realistic. There was no way this would be a completely different diagnosis. Perhaps less severe than the reconstructive surgery with a 6-month recovery time the first doctor said I required, but still something had to be wrong. Right?

I practically held my breath as the doctor examined me, pushing my leg this way and that. He looked at my MRI. Finally, he looked at me. “I push and pull on torn ACLs all day long. That’s not what’s wrong with you. In fact, I’d tell you to ski tomorrow.”

I returned his gaze and said, “Would it be really awkward if I hugged you right now?”

11. What was the best thing you bought?

My 4Runner! He is so badass. I needed a weather vehicle for Princess Eleanor Rose, and my husband came in clutch with the research, negotiation for a fair price, and most importantly, all the mods to make FinnRunner look like a badass.

12. Where did most of your money go?

Same place as last year and the year before that: going out to eat, drink and on vacations during which we ate, drank, skied, boarded, drove and generally had a blast. No regrets, three years running.

13. What did you get really excited about?

Our vacations. We scored the companion pass on Southwest, so we went EVERYWHERE.

January: ski trip to Breckenridge with my parents, aunt, cousin and friends. We met up with a customer of Sterling’s and dragged him back to the house for dinner. Heather and Erik came to the house one night and we had cake for Sterling’s birthday. Joe joined us and crash landed into my dad on the slopes, but they were both okay and we laughed about it later.

February: annual anniversary ski trip to A-Bay, which is always like coming home. In late February, we went on the Race Armada rally to Golden Nugget, each driving our own car! This was very super awesome for the control freak in both of us, but not so awesome for conversation on the trip.

March: our final spring ski trip of the season, where Sterling’s colleague joined us and egged us on into trying a double black diamond. That turned into #10 – see above. Sterling intelligently said no. Despite the snafu, we had a blast. That’s what happens when you’re home.

May: we did a quick trip into Denver for Heather’s 40th surprise birthday party. I reconnected with her parents, whom I hadn’t seen in 30 years. Her ailing father even remembered our secret code word and made sure to say it to me. Memorial Day weekend we went to Scottsdale, mountain biked in the desert and generally partied like college kids.

June: I tagged along on Sterling’s work trip down to a resort in Galveston. We rode bikes and had too many cocktails in the pool.

2018 was strangely the year of Chicago – after never visiting there before, I went on a business trip there in June, returned in July and helped my brother move there in November. July’s trip involved meeting our friend Joe there and spending three glorious days eating, drinking and walking the city. Blue skies, sun, comedy shows, rooftop views, and much laughter.

August: we met up with Joe, Madame V and Gigi for a quick weekend. Cue the food, drinks, laughter and fun.

For Labor Day weekend in September, Sterling and I took a tour of California, starting with San Francisco on Friday night. After dinner and drinks with friends, we headed south on Saturday morning to Los Angeles. We stayed at the Dream Hotel for a night, then got on the road Sunday morning for San Diego. Sunday evening we had a delightful dinner with our friend Denise, and returned home Monday.

In October, we met Joe again in Dallas for the Texas-OU matchup and a win for the Longhorns! Then my crazy schedule really kicked in. Two weeks later, we took Princess Eleanor Rose on her second car rally to the Golden Nugget in Lake Charles. My friend Heather came to visit and we road-tripped to Austin for two days. A week later, we were en route to Vegas (my third home, after A Bay) to rally from there to LA, Monterrey and back. After arriving home on Tuesday, it was off to Chicago three days later. The following Saturday, I spent 24 hours with my dear friend Ali, her doll baby and baby daddy. I treasure our memories of takeout, Hallmark movies and watching the Longhorns on my iPad.

For Thanksgiving, we road tripped back to Austin for dinner with my parents. My sweet mother made me strawberry rhubarb pie. SHE IS THE BEST.

Outside of all that vacation, the other standout for excitement is I made new friendships. I found some special ladies who are strong, progressive, independent, and love sharing a mimosa and/or an enchilada with me.

14. What song will always remind you of 2018?

This just came out, so It’s a bit late, but the lyrics totally describe car rallies: “Don’t Threaten Me with a Good Time” by Panic! At The Disco.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you:

– happier or sadder? I think I’m a little sadder. Trump’s presidency is wearing on me.

– thinner or fatter? I am just about the same. However, I hate this question.

– richer or poorer? Richer

16. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Writing. I love it. I think I’m good at it, but I just have trouble making time to do it. I had a plan at one point to go write on Saturday mornings after my workout class, but it happened a grand total of twice until life got in the way.

17. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Beat myself up for not being perfect or “good.” This is obviously a recurring theme

18. How did you spend Christmas/Hanukkah/Major Holiday of your choice?

On Christmas Day, we flew to Denver and went up to A Bay for three days. I call this a bonus trip since we didn’t plan it, and one of the main goals was to test my knee. It passed with flying colors.

19. What were your favorite TV programs?

Queer Eye, Very Cavalleri, This is Us, Are you the One?, 911, Suits, Younger, Botched, (rewatching One Tree Hill).

20. What were your favorite books you read this year?

The books I gave five stars on Goodreads are: Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn, The Good Goodbye by Carla Buckley, and Sacred by Dennis Lehane.

21. What was your favorite music you heard this year?

I am totally digging Zayde Wolf and Panic! At The Disco right now. I went to a Blue October show in November and was absolutely enthralled. Sterling and I ask Siri to play Imagine Dragons radio nearly every day.

22. What were your favorite films you saw this year?

I hardly ever watch movies! I’m usually reading or watching TV when I have free time at home, on a plane or at the gym. I saw Crazy Rich Asians, Sorry To Bother You, I, Tonya, RBG and A Simple Favor. They were all good! (A Simple Favor was somehow better than the book! I think big credit is due to the screenplay writer as well as Anna Kendrick and Blake Lively for their amazing acting.)

23, What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

My husband and I celebrated my 41st the Saturday prior to my Tuesday birthday per my request. Our day began at Tenenbaum Jewelers, where I brought in a ring my grandmother left me when she died. I haven’t ever worn it, and it’s been 30 years. So now it’s being coated with a silver finish and made into a pendant. From there, we went to St. Bernard’s, where we drank free champagne and beer, and purchased new ski trip items. After St. Bernard’s, we wandered around River Oaks District, window shopping and sipping. We finished the night with a wonderful dinner with our friends Alex and Mark, including a delectable risotto.

There was a lot of prosecco.

I don’t regret a moment.

On Tuesday, I came home to flowers, champagne and a new lounge hoodie. My husband is always surprising me in the most wonderful ways.

24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

My husband struggled a bit with being fulfilled in his job, with his colleagues and friends, mainly due to the Trump presidency. His happiness is mine, and it’s important. I hope this gets better in 2019.

25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2018?

I’m going with the same answer as 2017: Classy and hip for work. Refusing to act my age, sexy and fierce when going out.

26. What kept you sane?

I apologize for the boring answer. As always: my husband. My partner, friend, confidant, therapist and love.

27. Share a valuable life lesson you learned in 2018.

Hard work plus patience pays off. I passed the 6-year milestone at my job in September. It’s the longest time I’ve ever worked anywhere in my entire life, whether marketing or law. All the good things that happened this year — my promotion, raise, new boss — made me feel like perhaps I’d found my home.

I continue to be most deeply grateful for my family. I chose not to have human children, but that doesn’t lessen or cheapen how much I love my family. My husband, my parents, my brother, my furkids, and my friends are my life. And that is a pretty damn good one.

Reality Check

Here’s what I’m supposed to be.

I shouldn’t have a line or a blemish on my face: a perfect FaceTune in real life. A full set of long, curled lashes. The perfect pout and long, shiny hair that never frizzes. My measurements should 36-24-36; not a bit of cellulite.

I’m supposed to be a runner, a weightlifter, a downhill champion skier, the girl who gets up a 5 a.m. to go to boot camp. I should eat kale, and quinoa, grilled fish and chicken.

Cultured. I would enjoy visits to a museum or an art gallery. Maybe learn a new language. I could take up the guitar.

I should be volunteering at the food bank or taking pro bono cases for those who can’t afford it. Maybe work at the community garden. I would never forget the reusable bags for the grocery store. And definitely bike to work three times a week.

I should work 60 hours a week, and if I have downtime, I should be studying articles about the law, my industry, management. I should create new projects and initiatives. I should work weekends. My job should be my passion.

If I were perfect, my husband and I would always hold hands, make love spontaneously and often. I wouldn’t ever go makeup free in yoga pants and sit on the couch. If I were perfect, I would have great friends, and a best friend. We would have these elaborate parties and get togethers and have great talks over coffee.

Here’s who I am.

I have cellulite on my thighs. I have lines on my face. My hair frizzes when the humidity hits 40%. But my husband says I’m gorgeous, sometimes in the morning when I’ve just woken up and I have not a stitch on, nor any makeup on my face. I have my dad’s long straight lashes, and my mom’s freckles. My grandmother’s dark brown eyes, almost black. Those lines on my face: some are frown lines, but perhaps far more are laugh lines.

I hate running. Lifting weights bores me. But I work out nearly every day. Sometimes, I get up at 5:45 am to go to a gym class that challenges me. (It usually involves weights.) If I don’t get up early, I go to the gym after work. I am one hell of a downhill skier. I am a pretty decent mountain biker. Each day at work when my Fitbit reminds me to get up, I walk the floor. Sometimes, I take the stairs.

I am flawed. I drink too much. I don’t want to learn French. I just want to sit on the couch and watch old episodes of Felicity. I tried the guitar once. But I meal prep on the weekends. I have a budget. I have a weekend checklist of productivity. My idea of a fabulous Sunday afternoon involves mimosas, and my husband, and some of our friends, and laughter, and my favorite wedges, and a hip new restaurant, or the one across the highway from our house where everyone knows us and we sit at the bar.

Every once in a while, I do take a pro bono case. Every couple of years, I take a family law case and help women free themselves from a marriage that stopped working long ago. Every once in a while, I volunteer to help green card holders apply for citizenship.

I don’t work 60 hours a week. When I have downtime at work, I pick up my phone and scroll through social media, or read an article in the Washington Post. I wasn’t in the top 10% of my class in law school. Sometimes, though, I read the bar journal magazine. Almost always, I do good work. Always, I am a good employee, a good colleague, a good manager.

My husband and I can go a whole day without touching except a quick peck on the lips to say hello or goodbye. But that’s not every day. We love each other with passion. We have fun together. We talk, we laugh, we plan, we dream. We are a true team, a partnership. We take care of each other. Perhaps most importantly, we are friends.

I invited a bunch of people to my fortieth birthday party in Vegas. Three people came. And sometimes people who I thought were my friends…aren’t. But my mom is my dear friend, and she is a wonderful person who is slow to judge and quick to compliment. I could not love that woman more. And I am still friends with a girl who lived across the street when we were just babies. Another one, from first grade – has a baby and lives in New Orleans and doesn’t drink anymore – but when we’re in the same room it’s like no time has passed at all, and we let each other be…each other. I found some wonderful ladies in a car group. I found an unexpected friend at a workout class. I have lovely friends who stood up at my wedding and who I’m confident will be by my side forever. And with all of these friends: we get together, and we laugh. Over booze, or coffee.

Sometimes, I eat the freaking cupcake.

Sometimes, I give myself a break.

Love, Part 1

03.14.2017

I met my first husband in line for the bathroom at a St. Patrick’s Day themed frat party twenty five years ago this month.  With such an auspicious beginning, who would have guessed that it wouldn’t last?  I nearly didn’t meet him at all, as I was about to leave the party because some drunk frat boy had just smacked me on the butt.  I realized my cup was empty when I went to throw my green beer on him.  I ended up shaking my cup at him and yelling, “Not nice!”  while he laughed and shrugged like, “Whoops, my bad!”  It was time to go. 

I didn’t want to ride the subway with a bladder full of green beer, so I got in the long bathroom line and the guy in front of me turned around, smiled and said hi. I was going to smile vacantly and look through him, but I noticed that he looked kind of like Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything, which is a stupid reason to fall for someone, but I was 20 and it was a good time to fall.  I opened my mouth and something super sexy came out, “I really have to pee, so don’t stink up the bathroom or use up all the toilet paper.”  I was a sweet talking devil.  How could he resist?  He laughed and was waiting for me when I came out, so we sat on a couch and started talking.  I found out that he was not one of the frat boys, but was home on spring break from his college, which was four hours away.  Frankly, this made him even more attractive to me, as I tended to be far more enthusiastic about romances that seemed like they would be excitingly short-lived.  It soon became clear to the fratties that Lloyd (not his real name, but let’s just go with it) was not one of them, and they not-so subtly asked him to leave.  He and I, along with my sweet roommate, who had been waiting while I chatted up Mr. Say Anything, got in a cab headed back to our dorm.  My roommate was heading to bed and Lloyd asked me if I wanted to get coffee.  I always say yes to coffee. 

It was a magical night, lightly snowing and cold with a big bright moon giving off a glow that gave the trees and sidewalks a sparkly luminescence.  I am not made of stone.  How was I not going to fall in love with him?  We walked to Harvard Square together and sat at the counter of a diner called The Tasty and had coffee and talked more.  Elton John’s Rocket Man started playing and he said his dad used to call him the Rocket Man and made him a t-shirt with the nickname emblazoned on it that he wore all the time when he was a little boy.  After our coffee we went into the Store 24 and bought gummy worms and other candy that you can eat at 2 AM when you are 20, yet still avoid heartburn and belly fat.  I saw a card that had a picture of a chubby guy sitting at a diner counter and inside it said, “missing you” and I told him he should buy it and send it to me and he bought it.  Then we walked back to my dorm and sat in the lounge watching MTV and eating gummy worms and milk duds, and we talked on and on all night.  When it was light out, we wrote our phone numbers on the back of a jello box (I seriously had eaten jello for dinner that night.  How was I even alive with that kind of diet?) and then I walked him out.  At the door he leaned in and kissed me and I remember it being this monumental thing, where I thought, “Whoa….something big is happening.”  Maybe it was lack of sleep and too much sugar, but that was the first kiss I’d ever had where I saw fireworks.

We spent nearly every day and night of the next week together and then he had to go back to school.  I was sad that he was leaving, but it didn’t seem sensible to try a long distance relationship.  The morning he left, we said that maybe we’d get together next time he was in town and kissed goodbye.  I was a little relieved that it was over, because the week with him had been way more intense than anything I’d ever experienced romance-wise and I felt like I needed to catch my breath.  I was watching tv with my friends that night, when the phone rang and it was Lloyd, drinking at a bar near his school.  He said, “I was wrong, I think we should give a long distance thing a try.  I don’t want to wait and see.” I was surprised, but thrilled.  I threw caution to the wind and said yes.

Everything about love was so new to me.  I’d had a couple of boyfriends before, but it had never been like this.  It all seemed like magic.  He wrote me letters from school and would draw me funny cartoons and write silly poems.  He took a train and a bus and traveled a ridiculous amount of hours just to come see me every couple of weeks.  We were crazy about each other and never seemed to run out of things to talk about.  We came up with silly ideas and stories and laughed like maniacs.  We made each other mix-tapes.  Plus, we were both young and adorable and having the type of sex that young people with endless energy, are limber and need very little sleep have.  Lots and varied.  Ah youth.  I found a way to stay in Boston for the summer while he was home from school (four part-time jobs!) and we spent all of our non-work time together.  We loved taking long ambling walks through the city.  Sometimes we’d ride the subway to a stop we’d never been to, then get out and walk around for hours. The first time he asked me to marry him, we were on a late night walk,  just four months after we met.  Our summer together was ending in a matter of weeks and we were both starting to get anxious. “We should get married!” he said and I just laughed.  But he stopped and spun me around so that he was looking in my eyes and said, “I’m totally serious.  Let’s get married.” 

“But we can’t!  We’re too young!”  I said.  I adored him more than I’d ever adored anyone in my life, but I had no interest in being a wife.  I still had two more years of college.  He said we could do it and still finish school.  Maybe we could just secretly get married,  and we wouldn’t even have to tell anyone? That idea actually appealed to me.  I like secrets and I am prone to doing ridiculous things on a whim.  We didn’t do it, though.  Before he left to go back to school he bought me a gold ring with a little heart-shaped amethyst stone in the center.  “Will you wear it on your left hand?” he asked.  “I want everyone to know you are mine.”  That sounded like passionate adoration to me back then. I was all in.

We should have done it.  We should have made that spectacular mistake early.  Gotten it out of the way and been divorced before we could do any major damage to each other.  Instead we had a long distance relationship while we were in college, then moved to Texas together so that he could go to graduate school.  He asked me to marry him again when we’d been together 6 years.  This time it wasn’t romantic.  We’d been growing apart and fighting more and more.  And then he had a health scare, something minor that seemed major, and when we got back from the doctor he said, “Maybe we should get married?”  And I said, “Sure, why not?”  And we tried to plan a wedding, but neither of us was really interested, so we flew to Vegas and got hitched in the Chapel of Love.  Maybe it was an attempt to get back to the days when we were younger and frivolous and did wild things together.  Eloping in Vegas is some wild and crazy fun. 

Sadly, I’d say that was the last time we ever had crazy fun together.  Things quickly went to shit after that.  The jealousy and possessiveness I’d mistaken for passionate love in him was starting to smother me.  He seemed to disapprove of everyone in my life: friends, family, anyone that took my focus off of him.  I somehow thought that marriage would make this better, that he would feel more secure and loosen up a bit, but it seemed to make it worse.  Two months after we married, we had a huge fight where he was angry at me for talking on the phone with my sister when he wanted me to watch tv with him.  He yelled at me and punched a wall, and I grabbed our car keys and took off.  I drove around aimlessly thinking, “I’ve made a huge mistake and I am going to need to get out of this marriage.”  But I stuck it out for two more years.  I always loved him and I kept hoping that the stress of both of us being in graduate school was our biggest problem.  We still seemed really compatible, as long as I didn’t spend too much time away from him.  And working full-time while going to grad school didn’t give me much opportunity for a social life, so things just went along for a while. 

He was at the point in his academic career where he was teaching his own classes, while working on his dissertation.  He seemed restless and unhappy.  He began telling me salacious stories about a colleague who was having an affair with a student and I was fascinated and repelled.  Somewhere in the back of my mind it began to dawn on me that he knew way too many details about this affair.  One day I came home from class and he smelled like a fruity shampoo that we didn’t own.  He left to go play basketball that evening and without thinking, I logged into his email.  I’m not sure what drove me to do it.  I’d never done anything like that before, but it was easy because his password was my name.  I found a chain of his emails with a college friend of his, whom he was supposed to be meeting in New Orleans that weekend.  It was all about keeping a secret from me.  It said, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her I’m with you if she calls.”  And it ended with “Fuck your brains out this weekend!”  So then I knew.

I’m not saying I was perfect.  I know I can be petty and mean.  Conveniently, I can only rememer two instances of my egregiously bad behavior towards him.  One was in college when we’d had a fight and I hung up on him, then got all dressed up and went to a party.  I met a guy and ended up making out with him in a bathroom stall, standing on a toilet.  I thought it was hot at the time and now I can’t believe I didn’t get flesh eating bacteria.  The other thing is shitty, but not nearly as gross.  Once he was sitting on our bed, shirtless and I went over and poked him in the belly and made that “hee-hee” sound like he was the Pillsbury Dough Boy.  This seems way meaner to me now that my stomach will never be flat again, due to having three babies.  These days, I’d cut somebody who poked me and made the Doughboy sound.  Then I would cry.  But at the time I laughed maniacally at him while he stared at me in horror.   

Also, that amethyst heart ring he bought me?  I lost it.  He had another one made for me a few years later and I lost that one too.  I was appallingly careless back then.  But it may have been symbolic.  That ring and that relationship sometimes made me feel smothered and I would take it off for a while to breathe and be myself again.  I think I knew it wouldn’t last, but I still hoped it would.  Maybe he felt the same way.  

When I found out he was cheating, I was devastated and furious.  I kicked him out of our apartment and proceeded to cut all of the crotches out of his pants and underwear, then folded them up in a box for him to take with him.  Surprise, asshole!  I threw out all of the love letters he’d written me in college, including the “missing you” card from the night we met.  I gave him back my wedding ring and told him it didn’t mean anything to me and I never wanted to see it again.  I held on to being angry, because when I wasn’t angry I felt more lost and desolate than I ever had in my life.  I divorced him, even though I still loved him, because I thought that he’d end up ruining me if I let him stay.  I don’t think it was the wrong decision, but it was one of the hardest things I ever did.  

I wish I hadn’t thrown out all of our love letters.  I wish I hadn’t let my second husband convince me to throw out the three wedding pictures that I had from my time with Lloyd.  I wish I hadn’t lost the heart rings.  I have no physical evidence left of that relationship and sometimes it feels like it never really happened.  I’m writing it down now, while I still have the memory to do so.  It’s already flawed and missing pieces, but I can still remember that feeling of first real love, long before things got so sad and ugly between us.  It was a pure and beautiful thing.  He and I aren’t in touch today.  I once ran into him at the gym a few years after we split and we had a nice conversation.  I haven’t seen him since then, 12 or 13 years ago.  I’m not really interested in knowing him now and I don’t want him to know me.  But I am glad that he was my first real love and also that he was my first real heartbreak.  The love we shared opened me up to so many good things.  When you’re in love, I think you learn to be generous, kind and vulnerable in ways that you never have before.  Maybe that’s why we keep doing it, taking the leap even though it can turn on you.  It makes all good things even better.  But the heartbreak from that relationship taught me that I was strong, brave and resilient and that I was capable of picking myself up and moving forward on my own.  It has been immensely helpful to know that in my life.  I am grateful for all of it.

Most Influential

05.01.2019

A few weeks ago I read that Christine Blasey Ford was on Time Magazine’s list of 100 most influential people.  It would be so much more of an honor if Brett Kavanaugh weren’t on that very same list.  That seems utterly perverse to me. I’m not sure what that list really means and who thought it was a good idea to put both of them on it.  But those hearings were certainly memorable, with the sniffing, the outrage, the inky social calendar with references to all the beer and the bitter crocodile tears of a man who seemed like he might not get what he wanted for the first time, ever.  What really affected me, and most of the women I know,  was the woman whose voice shook as she told a story of a traumatic night that happened many years ago.  She testified to all of this in front of an audience of strangers, many of whom didn’t believe her and/or didn’t care. 

The unsurprising conclusion to all of it was a kick in the gut to me.  I knew what was going to happen, but it still hurt. But still, those hearings and Christine Blasey Ford’s courageous testimony were very influential to me, in a way that has changed my life.  Her bravery in the face of horrific judgment and backlash is something I won’t forget. And a part of her testimony gave me a small but amazing gift:  the permission to not be ok.  Hear me out.   (Or don’t.  You can probably tell where this is going, so you may want to skip it. After all there are so many of these stories.)

Many years ago, I was in the process of divorcing my first husband, although I still loved him deeply.  It was the right thing to do and I knew it.  I was learning how to take care of myself and follow my own instincts. During this time I met a man, a friend of my dear friend and roommate’s boyfriend who was also going through a divorce.  He seemed like nice guy.  He would come by our apartment with the boyfriend, his toolbox in hand and fix things without our even having to ask.  He asked me out on dates and I demurred at first because my heart was broken, but at some point I said yes.  We dated for about a month and I never felt much of anything for him.  He seemed nice most of the time, but he drank in a way that alarmed me sometimes.  I slept with him just once, toward the end of the month I was seeing him.  I felt guilty about it, though, because I didn’t love him and didn’t think I’d ever love him.  That really mattered to me back then. 

He could tell.  I went to his company party at the lake and he got wasted.  A colleague’s wife referred to me as his girlfriend and I blurted, “Oh I’m not his girlfriend, we’re just dating.”  I knew immediately that I’d fucked up.  He was quiet and cold for the rest of the night.  Late in the evening we were walking on a path by the lake and I said something else he didn’t like and he shoved me hard.  Falling to my knees, I remember thinking, “Ah yes, there it is.”  He quickly pulled me to my feet, apologizing and acting like it was an accident, but I knew.  I pretended it was all fine and dropped him at his place, feigning exhaustion.  I called him the next day and broke it off.  He was livid.  He was still yelling at me when I shakily hung up the phone.  But I knew I’d done the right thing. 

We hung out in the same circle, so I saw him now and again over the next several weeks.  He glared at me occasionally, but didn’t speak to me.  I felt really guilty about hurting his feelings.  I felt like I’d messed up.  Six week after I’d ended things, I saw him at a Halloween party.  I was dressed in a short plaid skirt, like a sexy school girl.  This is one of those things that shouldn’t be relevant.  I wasn’t wearing it for him, but that doesn’t matter, either.  He came up to me and was friendly and I was stupidly relieved.  He wasn’t mad anymore! We could be friends again.  He offered to get me a drink.  It was my second of the evening.  I think that fact is relevant.  He handed me a tall drink and we kept chatting as I sipped it.  It probably was a jack and coke, because I liked those a lot back then.  It was sweet and bubbly and I don’t remember anything weird about the taste of it.  I drank half of it.  And at some point I realized that I didn’t feel right, but it was too late to do anything about it. I don’t remember much of the party after that, but I’m told that I passed out and he sat in a room with me laying in his lap.  He told people I drank too much and he was taking care of me.  Everyone knew we’d dated, so I’m sure it seemed sweet. He carried me out of that party and brought me back to his house.  At some point I woke up in his bed with him.  I didn’t know why I was there.  I didn’t have my underwear or my shoes on and for some reason I was way more concerned about my shoes.  I really wanted my shoes.  

Don’t worry, I don’t remember any of this well enough to share any gory and upsetting details with you. Whatever he *allegedly* put in my drink makes me a terrible witness.  I’m sure this would be relevant in a court of law, but we are not in one, so who cares?  I remember asking him why I was there and he said, “You wanted to come here.”  I said I didn’t think so, and I instantly knew that I’d fucked up again.  That man knew how to exude rage without having to raise his voice.  He was talking to me quietly but I don’t remember most of what he said.  The only part of it I remember was him asking me if I “just fucked everybody?” and I only remember that because a couple of years ago, some asshole friend of a guy I was dating put his arm around me and asked me that same question, out of nowhere, and the jolt of terror that went through me at that moment took my breath away.  I didn’t fuck everybody.  Then or now or ever.  But none of that has ever or will ever be relevant.  Back in that bed that night, that man was very angry at me.  I wasn’t sure why, but  I knew I was in trouble.  He kept talking and at some point I put my hand on his arm and said, “It’s ok.”  I don’t know who I was talking to, him or me.  But I know that it’s relevant, in that I can’t call what happened later rape.  I never said no. In fact, I said it was ok.  I thought that would make it better, but it’s the last of many things that I was wrong about that night.

For the next month or so I still ran into him.  And when I did, I went home with him.  He always wanted me to leave with him and it seemed pointless not to.  This fact has seemed very relevant to some of the people I’ve told this story to and they have judged me for it accordingly.  I judged myself too.  I can’t say why I did it.  That month was a blur and I couldn’t really feel anything.  I also couldn’t eat anymore.  I lost nearly 15 pounds in just four weeks.  It was the single most effective diet I’ve ever been on! I didn’t have much of a voice, either. I’ve always been quiet, but I could barely talk, especially around him.  That made him almost as angry as when I did talk.  Nothing really worked with him.  Sometimes I wondered if he was going to kill me, but I didn’t really care because some part of me wanted to die. 

I was seeing a psychologist back then and attended a weekly support group of his depressed patients.  Toward the end of that month someone in the group said they were worried about me because I was even more quiet than usual.  I suddenly blurted out what had happened on that bad night.  A sweet guy with a blond beard and glasses said gently, “That sounds like sexual assault.”  I started to cry and I said, “No, no, it’s not. In fact, I’m kind of seeing him still. It’s all fine.” I didn’t want to talk anymore but I couldn’t stop crying.  After the group meeting, the psychiatrist wrote me a prescription for a stronger anti-depressant and in two weeks I miraculously didn’t want to die anymore.  I never went home with that soulless garbage person again. A deceptively easy ending to a brief, but horrible and self-destructive period in my life.

I wish that was truly the end of it, and I had immediately been all better, but the truth is that I never felt safe again.  And I started having all these quirks and workarounds for my crippling anxiety.  I was terribly ashamed of all of it and I always tried to hide these things, only letting someone know about it if it was absolutely necessary.  There were just so many. And a lot of them persist to this day.  Some examples: I have an security alarm on my house, but I only set it at night when I am there.  I can’t sleep unless it’s on and I’ve checked to make sure all my doors and windows are locked, usually more than once.  I don’t really care if someone breaks in and steals my stuff when I’m not home. I mean, I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I’m not a stickler for setting the alarm when I’m gone (besides, I own little of value and have a mean, barky and bitey dog). I can never sleep with the windows open, even when I stayed in a house without air conditioning for a summer.  I’ve camped, but I don’t actually sleep when I’m outside in a tent.  That’s why I hate camping.

There’s more!  Inconveniently, in order for me to have a repair person in my house, someone else has to be there with me….or better yet, without me.  I can’t park in a parking garage by myself at night.  If that is the parking choice, I’m not coming.  If I have to park too far away at night and I’m alone, I am also not coming.  And I nearly always run on a treadmill inside unless I’m running with a group. I tell people it’s because of the weather or childcare, but it isn’t.  It’s all about safety from predators.  I hate when someone I don’t know touches me.  I hate when anyone touches me unexpectedly when I’m sleeping.  I always have a pair of shoes by the door. There are more, but I don’t feel like sharing them.  I’ll say that it takes a ridiculously long time for me to trust anyone, especially men.  Way longer than most reasonable people would expect and that’s caused some really unpleasant conversations.  I don’t know if all of these quirks are because of that one traumatic night, or that whole shitty month,  but I don’t think I had most of these issues before then.  I kept thinking I’d be better at some point.  That I should be better.  And stronger.  But so far, this is just the way I am.  High anxiety with lots of quirks.

Which brings me to my point. As horrifying as it was to watch Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony, it was freeing.  I will forever be indebted to her for changing my life.  Decades after the trauma that a laughing Brett and his friend caused, she talked about how she still lived with the effects.  She had quirks and workarounds, including the fact that she couldn’t live in a place without two exits.  This seemed crazy to her husband, but not at all to me.  Instead a lightbulb came on in my brain and I had the amazing realization, “Holy shit, I am fine.”  Finally, after all this time,  I had permission to feel ok about not being ok. 
The way I was and am makes perfect sense.  I am not broken or crazy.  I have been managing my life so that I can live and sleep and move through the world every day.   And I don’t have to be ashamed about any of it.  And I can tell this story and I don’t have to be afraid for people know these things about me.  It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about it or how anyone judges me for my actions and reactions. I am fine and I am free.  Thank you Christine Blasey Ford.

Morning Routine

11.30.2016

Rudely awakened by the bleating of my first alarm at a ridiculously dark hour.  So strange to not feel refreshed and energized after 5 – 1/2 hours of fitful sleep! First put the coffee on, now the day can begin.  Oh my God, who is that mug shot in my mirror? Nick Nolte? Oh shit, it’s me. Stupid 40s, why do you hurt me?  Shower, then put on my pink fuzzy robe.  Grab my coffee cup and buckle up.  It’s about to get real.

Second alarm is 12 minutes later.  That one plays “Don’t Stop Believin'” for extra motivation.  I need it ’cause it’s time to wake the children.

It is unfortunate that only one of my children is a morning person. That child, while not thrilled to be getting up, will generally smile at me and get out of his bed and possibly start getting ready for school.  The other two are in no mood for pleasantries.  They are burrowing, they are growling.  They can only be lured from their beds with promises of pop tarts.  They don’t know that my pop tarts aren’t the real deal, but some facsimile from Trader Joe’s that claims to be “organic” and therefore full of nutrition, right?  But really, how can something called a “toaster pastry” be organic, or healthy, or even considered food?  That is one of the many mysteries I will not be solving this morning. 

After I have thrown food at the kids, I grab my coffee and head to my bathroom to try and make myself look like the competent professional I aim to be someday.  Not hungry yet, but I will likely be chowing on trail mix at my desk later this morning. I eat a lot of trail mix for someone who is not particularly outdoorsy.  I read and admired Wild, but I’m going to have to go another way with my transformative journey. The way that doesn’t include wildlife or sleeping on the ground.  As I dry my hair, I multitask by barking orders at the children.  Is it possible that they will someday figure out that they have to put clothes AND shoes on their body and brush their teeth EVERY day without my telling them?  Hasn’t happened yet.  Won’t happen today.  They are screaming at each other and eventually one of them throws a hardcover book at his brother’s head and there is more screaming and a little bit of blood.  I wipe up the blood, do some consoling and scolding and direct the children to the next steps in the getting ready process. “Brush your teeth or they will all turn green and fall out of your face! I hear that the Tooth Fairy charges YOU to haul away the green ones.”

Oh crap, I’ve got to put on real clothes!  Luckily, I have a dress I found at Ross Dress for Less for $14.99 which miraculously makes me look 10 pounds thinner. I don’t know if it’s the material, the cut or the print, but it’s magical wizardry!  I need to find six more of these dresses.

Grab my youngest son’s “sack lunch” because he has a field trip today.  I have no sacks, so it is in a paper wine bag from Trader Joe’s, ’cause I stock up on Three Buck Chuck when I purchase my organic pop tarts and trail mix.  The bag has a wine bottle on one side and a wine glass on the other.  Awesome. 

Time to go!  Each minute that passes after my set to-go time buys me exponentially more minutes in congested Austin traffic. 

But wait!  Shoes!  I tell the boys to put their shoes in a bin by the door every evening.  But do they put them there? Occasionally. Right now, five out of six feet are shoed.  Nobody can find the sixth shoe.  I search around frantically while approximately 1/3 of the hundreds of “dammits” and “shits” in my head come out of my mouth.  I consider that a victory.  And I find the shoe under the couch and consider that a victory as well.  Roar up to the school in my vaguely-colored minivan and practically push them out of the car. Now it’s time for traffic hell! This was one of Dante’s levels, right?

Did you know that things are just magnetically drawn to vaguely-colored minivans?  Cars come at my van like moths to a vaguely-colored flame.  And nobody wants to be behind a vaguely-colored minivan.  Furthermore, Dodge Ram drivers seem to think that their penises will fall off if a vaguely-colored minivan passes them, so they are on high alert and do their damnedest not to let it happen.  If I get cut off or somebody is practically driving up my butt, that person is most often piloting a Dodge Ram.  Hey guys, I don’t think the penis thing is true.  It doesn’t seem like real science.  Please stop trying to kill me.

I live 11 miles away from my job, but it takes me at least 40 minutes to get there.  Luckily this morning I have a sweet Neil Diamond playlist going.  “I AM, I CRIED!  I AM, SAID I!” Hell yeah, Neil.  I AM the bitch driving the vaguely-colored minivan you are stuck behind, Mr. Ram.  Suck it.

I eventually get to my parking garage, which is three blocks from work.  Not terrible, unless it is raining.  The thing that IS terrible is the garage stairwell.  It smells like a whole lotta urine and at the bottom there is often some sort of weird surprise like old pants or empty cough medicine bottles or dead crickets.  Today I realize, after exiting the stairwell, that I have forgotten my badge in my car. I have to run back up four flights of stairs, causing me to breathe heavily and suspect I am huffing a urine cloud.  That can’t be good.

But wait, the harrowing times aren’t over!  The three blocks to work are filled with crazed Austin commuters and I must make my way across the streets like I’m playing a live version of Frogger. I am almost run over by a guy in a Prius who didn’t see me in the crosswalk because my magical dress made me look so incredibly thin.  We stare at each other in horror for a second and then he smiles apologetically and gives me a wave, like “Glad I didn’t run you over! Have a nice day!”  Whew.  I’m finally at my building. I work at the courthouse, where there is usually a line to get through the metal detector at the entrance, because courthouses are one of the few places in Texas where your concealed weapons are not welcome.  Never fear, you can still bring them to the state mental hospital or your film studies class at the university, where they are totally appropriate.  I don’t make it through without setting off the buzzer and must be “wanded” by a police officer.  Not gonna lie, that was the best part of my morning.

I make it to my desk, just barely on time and breathe a sigh of relief.  My cube-mate smiles the serene, well-rested smile of a child-free woman and says, “Good morning!”  I say, “I’m gonna need to drop six bucks on a ridiculous coffee beverage with syrup and whipped cream in about an hour.  Need anything?”  I think I deserve it.

Learning to Fly

05.16.2017

I frequently describe myself as a “nervous traveler” or just “not a great traveler” but I’ve started to rethink those ideas. It’s true that I feel somewhat incompetent when I travel by plane, mainly because for most of my life I would fly once every few years, maybe twice in a really big year. In my younger days, I was always too broke for anything but long car trips or the ‘hound. That’s what the cool broke people call the Greyhound bus, btw. Well that’s what I call it, anyway. And I hope to avoid it for the rest of my life. Speaking of buses, I once went on the Mexican version of the ‘hound and some of my fellow passengers were actual birds. That was an adventure. Would a bad traveler do that? Maybe I’ve had the potential to be a good traveler, but not the resources? Hmmm…

My second marriage was to a great traveler, so I had high hopes that we’d go a lot of places together and I’d become an expert at it. But we had lots of kids (three, but all boys and in less than four years, so it’s really like having fifteen) immediately, so my travel dreams were put on hold while I was tethered to the earth. We did take a LOT of road trips, which is really the way to go when you have young children. At least if your asshole kid is screaming in your personal minivan you don’t have to apologize to anyone when you put in ear plugs and ignore him for 7 hours. And nobody has to know that you are carrying around a large bottle for the children to pee in, that you actually refer to as “the pee bottle” because you’re just handing them any damn juice box they want so their little mouths will be quiet for a while, but you don’t want to have to stop at sketchy gas station bathrooms every 40 miles when you could just pull over for a pit stop and then empty child pee all over these great United States. I bet this ensured that search dogs could have easily located my family on any of our trips, had we needed to be rescued, so really it was a win-win. Plus, I always researched any weird and interesting places that might be along our route, so we’d get to see some crazy shit, like a giant King Kong statue, boat and train-shaped restaurants, the Precious Moments chapel, a big blue whale you could wander inside of, multiple Elvises (Elvi?) and South of the Border, where Pedro sez you need to stop, so you just do. I will always go out of my way to see something unusual. It’s one of my life’s guiding principles.

So maybe I could be a good traveler, but I just haven’t flown often enough to totally get the hang of it. My air travel skills are still like those of a very old, very young, or slightly drunk person. I am unclear about what is happening, but I’m really excited! I can’t figure out how to check in my bag, and I ALWAYS have a bag to check, because I have not mastered the skill of paring things down when I might NEED a variety of shoes and multiple books. There are always new and unpleasant protocols to follow, just to get near the plane, like shoe removal and weird body scans and threats of pat downs and anal probing. It is all really confusing and makes me rumpled and disoriented and protective of my body parts. I’m getting better with it, though. This has been a big travel year for me, possibly the biggest ever. I’ve flown 4 times since July! I know, right? It’s huge! I stayed in hotels by myself twice and it was glorious. I have plans for even more travel in the upcoming months. Soon there may be a time when I can call myself a great traveler. And I will! The main thing I’ve realized is that in order to navigate travel one needs to READ THE SIGNS. There are many of them posted. They are telling you things that you need to know. This is good practice for life in general, not just for traveling. Read the signs!

I love being at the airport so much more than the actual flying part. It’s really fun to watch all of the people. So many interesting outfit choices. People are either super-fancy or they’re like, “Screw it! Why shower or wear anything clean when I’m going on a damn plane? I’ll just wear these pajama pants with the blown-out elastic waist. Yup, that’s my butt crack. No need to hold up the security line when you can see for yourself that I’m not hiding anything in there. You’re welcome everyone.” Hmmm…maybe those people are on to something.

I usually spend money that I would not ordinarily spend in airport stores, and not just at the Starbucks. Magazines are a given, because Us Weekly is never more compelling than when you read it on a plane. But I’ll even be tempted by souvenirs FROM MY OWN CITY. On my most recent trip, I had to convince myself that I didn’t need to bring a packet of “chili-fixin’s” from the Austin airport with me to New York. If I hadn’t been distracted, I would have totally picked up those fixin’s (oh my God, it is killing me to make something plural with an apostrophe, but I think that’s the way you are required to do it with something called “fixin’s”) on the way home. And I’ll just admit here that if I’ve ever given you a gift after I’ve taken a trip where I traveled by plane, there is an 85% chance I got it at the airport.

I am not at all a fan of the actual flying on the plane part. It’s always too cold and claustrophobic for me to really be comfortable. And despite my lack of frequent flying, I’ve had some weird and unfortunate flight experiences. Have you ever been screamed at by a hysterical flight attendant to put on your oxygen mask while you made an emergency landing because of an issue with cabin pressure? I have. The bags do not inflate, but the oxygen still flows, just like they said it would. How about being on a flight that is rerouted to a different place, because after four insanely turbulent attempts at landing in a dust storm in El Paso, the plane is running out of fuel and the pilot is will finally admit defeat, as your fellow passengers get teary, throw up and pray. I had that harrowing experience with Shakira and her husband last summer. Thank God I was with them, because they are never opposed to getting drunk and that was exactly what I needed to do, once we were on firm ground.

Usually if I’m flying alone, I take Dramamine, put on a fuzzy neck pillow and try to fall asleep and miss as much of the flight as possible. Do good travelers do this? Do they bring better distractions? Do have access to better drugs? Are these some of those adult secrets I never seem to know until it’s really late, like that people who have kids, but also have clean houses most likely *pay other people* to clean them. Or that more people than you’d suspect, who don’t have those “eleven” lines between their eyebrows, that you get from thinking “WTF?” too often get a little botox there? I didn’t know these things before and just thought I was failing at things like cleanliness and graceful aging. Perhaps it is the same with travel? Are there just a few more things I should learn and then I will be an amazing traveler? Let me know!

Resolution

I have a problem with maintenance. I’m working on it. I told this to my therapist last week and she nodded sagely. She often nods sagely and I love that about her. She is proof that I’m working on my problem with maintenance. I guess ‘maintenance’ isn’t quite the right term. Or maybe it’s that not doing maintenance is the manifestation of my real fear which is a fear of *knowing*. If you don’t check under the hood, if you don’t get the test, if you don’t look too carefully, if you don’t ask the right question…then you don’t really have to know. At least for a while. Until it blows up in your face. Which it inevitably does. You know those moments you have before you learn something that shatters you? I think about those moments in my life. They were mundane. They wouldn’t have been memorable except for what came afterwards. In 1988, in my friend’s car after a night of playing Nintendo and swimming in her sister’s pool. Pulling up to my house and laughing our goodbyes before realizing there was an ambulance in my driveway. In 1999, a phone conversation with my beloved grandfather that ended with a promise to see me soon and an “I love you, stop worrying about me.” In 2000, watching my husband walk out the door with a basketball and an “Eat dinner without me, I’ll be home in a couple of hours.” Again in 2000, a fucking devastating year I still haven’t recovered from, at a Halloween party where a man I’d briefly dated was being friendly to me instead of the usual hostility he’d shown since I’d told him I didn’t want to date him, and I was stupidly relieved and happy to accept the drink he handed me. I didn’t think I’d ever be so blissfully ignorant again. My problems with maintenance were intensified after that. I couldn’t relax, I always felt unsafe and unmoored. If I heard a rattle in the car, I turned up the radio. If there was a problem in my apartment, I moved. I had eight addresses in four years. I became petrified of going to the doctor or dentist, because what if there was a problem I couldn’t handle? When all the worst things keep happening, how can you trust that the sky isn’t about to fall on you every time you leave the house? How can you risk hearing somebody tell you that things are even worse than you feared? What if you just can’t handle ANYTHING ELSE? Better to ignore any issues, because sometimes issues just go away! After four years of living by that sensible philosophy, I met someone with whom I didn’t feel alone. That was new for me. I got married again and had my sons. Weirdly, that started to steady me. It doesn’t work that way for everyone, I know. Kids aren’t exactly a calming force, but somehow, they grounded me. I still wasn’t thrilled about maintenance, but I went to the doctor. I got my car fixed. It’s best have to have a working body and car with kids. It’s good to take your kids to the doctor, too. So I did. I sunk into it for a while. I don’t know if I ever got comfortable. And yet…it hit me like a goddamn truck when the blissful ignorance of my marriage was shattered in an artfully decorated hotel room in Manhattan with a view of big wet snowflakes in the air and ballet dancers practicing in the building across from us. I left the room an hour later to walk alone in that beautiful city in the falling snow, knowing that the life I had before was over forever and I would have to do something and tell someone and ask someone to help me, but all I could do was walk for a while and feel the snow and remember that I was still breathing and my heart was still beating. It’s important to know those things. Sometimes you don’t need to know anything else. So. That was almost three years ago. Maintenance has been difficult for me again in those years. I haven’t been to the dentist in forever, I ignore my doctor at all costs, I have a plumbing problem in my shower and a toilet that needs you to lift the lid in order to stop it from running. Also my car is ten years old and has a lot of hazard lights that are always illuminated on the dash. I ignored grindy brake sounds until I needed to get a complete new set of brakes. A ridiculously expensive consequence, yet it still didn’t cure me of the maintenance problem. But this year is the year. I told my therapist (and therapy is totally maintenance, so I’m not a total failure in this regard) and now I’m telling you. My 2018 resolution is to get check-ups and get things fixed. To ask the questions and find out what I need to know to solve the problems. To know that I am strong enough to handle the answers and resourceful enough to find the solutions. I’ve got this.

Alternalife

In an alternate universe, I’m pretty sure I’m wearing overalls right now.  Or swoveralls, which are a delightful mash-up of sweatpants and overalls.  I recently heard about this magnificent combination and I have to actively force myself NOT to purchase a pair or several of them.  I know they would almost definitely look hideous on me,  but I also know that I would love them and wear them as often as I possibly could.  And that is probably not a good idea.  Right?  Can I be living my best life if I’m wearing something utterly unflattering?  I will have to seriously ponder that.  I used to wear overalls all the time and I LOVED them.  “Like wearing a hug,” I would say.  “With  so many pockets and a hammer holder!”  But I’ve seen photos, and I will admit it wasn’t a great look on me.  And the hammer holder feature proved useless for my lifestyle.  I rarely carry hammers and it did not turn out to be good for the hands-free transport of a full, or even half full, wine glass.  Plus, nearly every boyfriend I ever had, including both of the ones I married, told me that they looked terrible on me and asked me to please not wear them so often. To be fair, I did wear them reaaaallly often, pretty much anytime I wasn’t at work.  So eventually I begrudgingly stopped sporting overalls and switched to other comfortable and slightly less shapelessly unflattering clothing.  My current comfort uniform is a pair of camouflage capri pants, topped by one of my large assortment of soft t-shirts that say things like ‘Vegas!’ or ‘Pardon My French’ or ‘Having Fun Isn’t Hard When You Have a Library Card’ or ‘Don’t Get Upsetti, Eat Some Spaghetti’ (yes, these are all actual shirts I own). While it is not the most glamorous look, I do not look as amorphous as I did in my sweet sweet overalls.  I guess that’s an improvement.  It’s unlikely that I’ll win a Best Dressed award (is that a thing?) but thankfully, the show What Not to Wear isn’t on anymore, so at least I don’t have to worry about being nominated, then secretly filmed as I walk out of the grocery store looking mortifyingly unfashionable while quickly scarfing down secret M&Ms that I do not wish to share with my children.

Do you ever think about the life you would have had if things had gone a differently at one of your crossroads?  Sometimes I like to think about where I would be and what I’d be doing…and wearing, which (as I said earlier) is probably overalls or swoveralls.

In the summer of 1995, I was living in Boston and my boyfriend of 3 years had been accepted to graduate school in Austin, Texas.  He asked me to move there with him, but I really loved Boston and I’d just applied for a supervisor position at my college’s library, where I worked with two of my best friends.  This job had the very nice benefit of paying for one class of graduate school in library science per semester.  I knew that the librarian life was for me! It was what I wanted with all my heart and soul.  I thought I would miss my boyfriend, but we’d already had a long distance relationship while we were in colleges in different states and that worked out well for me, because I was and still am an introvert who cherishes my own space and alone time.  So I applied and got into the graduate program…but I didn’t get the job.  Such a disappointment!  Cue the sad trombone.  Who is to say why the hiring committee didn’t think I’d make a great supervisor?  Perhaps it was because I occasionally sang over the library intercom system at closing time.  Or maybe it had something to do with the time there had been a picture of me on the front of the B section of the Boston Globe, feeding ducks in the Public Garden on a day when I had called in sick. It’s possible that it was because I’d encouraged my friend to photocopy her butt on the library copier.  It is accurate to say that I was a flaky little goofball at 23.  Today I would probably not hire my then-self.  Or at least I would sit her dumb ass down and tell her to shape up and curb her foolishness in the workplace.  

If I’d gotten the job, I had a plan for my life.  I wanted to rent a cozy studio apartment near my library and fill it with books and lots of comfortable pillow on which to lay against while reading. I wanted to go to museums and wander Boston and hang out with my friends. I also really wanted a smoosh-faced, curly-tailed pug dog to love.  I did not need or want a car, because the public transportation in Boston is good, while driving and parking in Boston is one of Dante’s levels of hell.  

If I’d lived that life, I can’t imagine what my world would be like now.  It would surely be different from what I envisioned, but I can’t see how it would be anything like my life today.  I would probably not have married (and divorced) that grad student boyfriend, the way I eventually did, as he was not as happy with a long distance relationship as I was.  And it seems impossible that I’d have met my second husband, which would have spared me a second divorce, but would also not have produced my children.  Would I be a car-less, child-free librarian who spent a lot of time reading and going to museums and hanging out with friends and my dog in that life?  Would I wear overalls and swoveralls and not care what anyone had to say about it?  Maybe.

In real life, I visited Austin with my boyfriend.  I went to BookPeople and Barton Springs.  I ate a Big As Yo’ Face Burrito at Chuy’s and drank copious amounts of frozen margarita.  And I said, “I could try this place for a while.”  That was almost exactly half my life ago, ’cause I never left.  Austin is the only constant I’ve had in a life that didn’t turn out even remotely the way I expected it to.  The only thing I know for sure in life is that you can’t predict the future.  You can want what you want and hope for things and prepare for them the best you know how to, but there will always be surprises and you may have to change course.  Luckily, it seems we are made to be resilient and resourceful.  Good news, y’all!  I can tell you from experience that if you have a major change of course, it is likely that you will find a way handle it and you’ll be ok.  Take it from me.  I’ve changed course more than once and I’m A-OK!  Hell, why be modest?  I’m slaying on a daily basis!  Sure, my life may not align with someone else’s picture of success, but I know where I am and where I cam from and I feel pretty good about it.  It’s all about perspective.

But sometimes, in the midst of all the chaos of being a single parent caring for three young boys and a crazy (non smoosh-faced pug) dog and a life where I always seem to be rushing,  I think about my quiet, calm alternative life.  In my head, I go to my little apartment and lean against my pillows and read with my snoring pug.  Maybe I could make a life like that when my kids are grown up?  I know that I can’t predict what will happen, but it seems like a nice possibility.  I’m ok not knowing at this point and I’m not ruling anything out. No matter where life takes me, I am absolutely certain that I’ll need comfortable things to wear.  See you soon, swoveralls!

Haunting

Every time it happens, it takes me by surprise.  I catch a glimpse of a man and he is familiar, sending a zing of recognition through me.  Is it his height or the way he carries himself?  His walk?  His thick hair ruffling in the breeze? I don’t know for sure, because I can’t remember any of those things clearly anymore.  But occasionally I happen upon a man who reminds me of my father and for a moment I can’t help but suspend disbelief.  I’ll pretend he isn’t dead, after all. And he’s here, in my city, to finally reunite with me. I know it’s not true, of course. I’m not crazy.  And I’m not a child – in fact I’m a year older than he was when he died.  But I always let myself believe for just a moment and I feel a tiny flutter of childlike expectancy in my heart.  Does everyone who loses a parent when they were young do this?  See them in places where they cannot be and get foolishly hopeful, just for a few seconds? We never stop wanting our parents to see us, after all. I once read that children need to see their parents’ faces light up when they walk into a room. I always make sure that my kids see me seeing them and loving them from afar.  It’s not hard to do.  They are my favorite faces to see. 


I don’t think of my dad very often anymore.  It’s much too hard to picture him, as he’s been gone 32 years this month.  He was tall and smart.  He was quiet, an introvert.  He had a very dark sense of humor.  He had demons that killed him.  I too am an introvert with a dark sense of humor.  I think I’ve made friends with my demons and I don’t think they’ll kill me.  Well, maybe we’re not friends. My demons and I hold each other at arm’s length, regarding each other warily, to be sure, but we’ve developed a mutual respect.  I’ve become a remarkably productive citizen and a responsible and loving parent.  I feel like I’m faltering sometimes, but still I avoid most of the self destructive bullshit that attracted me when I was younger.  I’m also honest with myself, for the most part.  I don’t know if my dad was aware that his demons were starting to win.  Or if he cared.  But I know that losing him to them was my first and biggest heartbreak.  And the one I never got over. 


My kids ask me what he was like and I’m never sure what to say. The thing I remember most vividly about him is how he could be right next to you in a room, but it would feel like he wasn’t there at all. He was already a ghost to me before he was actually gone.  I fear I’ve inherited this tendency as well.  I’ve been asked where I was, when I was right next to someone, more times than I can count.  I think it’s partly an introvert thing, the need for time and space to process things alone, but it’s also…more than that.  I am working on finding a balance.  I think I still have time.


I dream of him sometimes.  He just appears in my sleep and hangs out with me, like no time at all has passed.  He never says anything profound, but there’s always a point when I tell him that I thought he was dead and we laugh and laugh. Then I wake up and I’m strangely happy.  It would be just like him to haunt me in this way. 

Unrequited Love: A Head Case

This is part 3 in a series about my great loves aka fuckups in terms of relationships.

I met Pierce after I’d been back in Austin for a couple of months. He was one of Dean’s colleagues. I had been on a dating whirlwind and was lamenting the fact that I didn’t really have a connection with any of the guys. I had random, intermittent communications from both Billy and Jay. I think at the beginning Billy regretted breaking it off. And Jay ran hot and cold with me, as usual.

Dean and I went to the Bob Marley festival together in April, and he brought along some friends — one of whom was Pierce. He completely captivated me that afternoon. He was tall — nearly 6’5” — we must have looked ridiculous next to each other, as I’m just over 5 feet tall. He had a shock of curly light brown hair, hazel eyes, a goatee. I described him in my journal at the time: “cute, funny, educated, intelligent, he’s AMAZING.” The group of us lounged in the sunshine, drank beer, listened to music. Pierce had a date that night with some girl he met at a coffee shop. But I didn’t let that deter me. As we all walked back to our cars, I boldly told him we should go out next Saturday. Obviously I knew he was already booked that night. He said that his parents would be in town the following weekend because it was his birthday, but maybe after that?

“That’s too long,” I simpered.

“I’ll get your number from Dean.” He grinned at me. “Until then?” And he leaned down to give me a quick peck on the side of my mouth.

I was the one to ask him out, and then I was the one who got his email address from Dean and emailed him two days later. I thought I was just being proactive and going after what I wanted, but I probably should have listened to my mother when she told me that I shouldn’t chase boys. He emailed me back, to my delight, and we made plans for Saturday.

I spent that Saturday at the lake with my friends, anticipating seeing him again with a flutter of nervous excitement in my belly. I was living with my parents at the time, and we were far north of town, so I didn’t want him to come pick me up. Similarly, since he had recently moved to Austin, he was living with his brother and sister-in-law. So I met him there, and we got in his 4Runner. He had suggested a party being thrown by another colleague.

We stayed at the party for half a beer. We were too into our date to hang out longer: people were annoying us simply by distracting us from each other. I hadn’t eaten much that day — too nervous — and he took me out for pizza at his favorite neighborhood place. We couldn’t stop talking. From dinner, we went downtown to the Elephant Room and listened to jazz. I’m not sure I had ever been on a date like that. My dates up till that point had been things like keg parties and Taco Bell at 2 a.m. And Billy hardly took me out at all. Dinner and then listening to jazz seemed so sophisticated to me.

We left Elephant Room and strolled down Sixth Street, people watching talking and laughing. At some point he took my hand. Then he was beaming at me and saying, “Wow, you’re fun.” I felt as light as air. I thought he was the fun one — can you imagine the difference between him and Billy? And he liked me? We wound up outside the Driskill Hotel, gazing up at its imposing outer walls, and Pierce suggested a nightcap. I agreed enthusiastically, telling him how much I loved the hotel. I had never stayed there, but the sweeping grandeur of the architecture, the marble floors, and the Texas-themed bar were all so classy and cool.

“Why don’t we get a room here?” he said then, and I might have swooned. We certainly couldn’t spend the night together at either of our respective homes, and neither of us wanted the night to end. In the hotel room, I was all nervous and fidgety again. I was bouncing around the room, acting silly, pulling books off the shelves, checking out the view while Pierce lay on the bed and smoked a cigarette.

“I’ve been dying to ask you this all night,” he said.

I paused, looked over at him warily. “What?”

“Can I kiss you?”

I was floored. No one had ever asked me that before, and something about it struck me as incredibly romantic.

And so the Pierce chapter began. In the beginning, our honeymoon stage, we were electric. We went on dates to restaurants, bars, parties, concerts. Again, it was something I had never known with Billy, who was absorbed in his world of computers. Pierce could dance, and would spin me around the floor, everyone watching. I think I fell in love with him after a week. I wanted to say it but I couldn’t — I knew that was crazy, and I didn’t want to be the first one. One weekend we drove to Shiner for a picnic. Inside the picnic basket, Pierce had three roses for me. That night he hesitantly asked if I would be his girlfriend. I was ecstatic. Of course I wanted to be his girlfriend. I couldn’t get the guy out of my head.

He also warned me he had issues. He didn’t tell me what they were, but he said that his heart wanted to be with me but his head was trying to deal with the unresolved things that happened in his past. I told him I would help him, even thought I had no idea what I was signing up for. I loved him so much that I was willing to do anything for the relationship. And I think he truly loved me, but true to his word — the issues in the end were just too much for him.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Something about his issues and his past — there was a weird religious cult thing that he would occasionally bring up, usually after many drinks, but I never really got the full story — made it hard for him to say those three little words, “I love you.” He said that he really didn’t know what love was. He slipped, though, and after we had been dating about a month, he said it while he was spinning me around the dance floor at the Continental Club on South Congress: “I love you girl!” I didn’t say anything. I pretended I didn’t hear him. I didn’t want to be mistaken. It was loud, crazy, the band was pumped and there were throngs of sweaty dancers. We were practically screaming to be heard. But then he pulled me close and said it again, in my ear — “I love you!” I was so relieved, because I was besotted with this man and beginning to fear I was in it all alone, afraid of what that meant and what would happen to us and to me.

But as Pierce said, he was weird about it, so after that night, he stopped telling me. It was like he jumped the gun, said it too early and wanted to take it back. I became obsessed with it. My friends and I called it “The Phrase.” No matter what he did or said that showed me how much he obviously loved me, I needed to hear those words. Nothing else would do. It took nearly eight months for him to say The Phrase again, and this time he kept telling me.

We were still far from perfect.

Pierce’s mother Pam came to visit when Pierce and I had been dating for about six months. I played the situation all wrong. I made jokes she didn’t like, a curse word or two likely slipped out, and I’m sure I was dressed inappropriately. It simply didn’t occur to me that I was supposed to act a different way in front of her than I would otherwise. We had an awkward dinner — Pierce, me, his mother, his brother and his wife — and then we went back to Pierce’s house so she could evaluate it. I didn’t realize at the time that Pam felt she should be involved in all aspects of her youngest son’s life, even though he was 24. She needed to determine what furnishings he needed — no matter what Pierce thought. At some point it dawned on me that I should go home, when on a normal evening I would spend the night with Pierce.

Pierce walked me to my car and we had a heated discussion. His mother had gone home a half hour ago, but he was actually afraid she would drive back by and see my car there. And then he would be in deep trouble with her. I couldn’t wrap my head around the situation. This man seemed so smart and in control, yet he was terrified of his parents. He was so terrified that he would alter his behavior to suit them. I took the situation harshly and personally, as always. Pierce wouldn’t have been able to spend the night with anyone — this was not about me, but about propriety — but I didn’t see that. I was laser-focused on what I saw as her rejection of me, and his inability to stand up for me and for us.

The weekend was awful. Because Pam was around, we couldn’t have a “normal” weekend — and he was at her beck and call. Our phone calls were short and clipped, and later Pierce would tell me how awkward he felt talking to me while Pam was standing there listening. We went out Saturday night and he allowed me to spend the night. (How did I manage that? He must have felt bad for me, or maybe I wore him down.) Sunday afternoon his mother called after her return from antique-hunting with his sister-in-law, demanding he come to their house immediately. I was pointedly not invited. The afternoon was bleak, spitting rain from low gray clouds. Pierce drove me back to my apartment and I remember staring out the window of the 4Runner, feeling like a tramp.

Though that first night was not about me, I had already made the terrible impression that would ultimately spell the end for us. His mother didn’t like me. She had not chosen him for me. It was as simple as that. A couple months later, we went to Lubbock for a concert. As we drew near, Pierce detailed all the things I should keep in mind: don’t talk about religion, don’t say curse words — in other words, don’t be yourself. I drew inward and stopped talking. In the silence of the car ride, he took my hand and asked me what was wrong. “I get it,” I spit at him. “I’m not a dumbass.” But I clearly was — because I had already screwed up so badly it could never be repaired.

We had been dating for about a year when Pierce broke my heart for the first time. I was so happy that night — we had just come home from a party and I was thinking that he was such a good boyfriend. I felt pretty too. My hair was curly and wild and Pierce kept telling me how much le loved it.

In his kitchen, we started discussing music and I drunkenly maintained that he needed to hear Rod Stewart’s cover of a particular song. He thought Everything But the Girl had done it better.

“I’ll download the Rod Stewart version,” I said to him, sure I could prove my point. In his office, I fired up his computer. His ICQ list flashed to life in the bottom right corner of the screen. I glanced at it — honestly, my intent was just to download the song, not invade his privacy like past boyfriends had done to me — and saw several names of girls whom I didn’t recognize. Frowning, I clicked on one of the conversations with a girl named Maple Sugar.

The screen swam before my eyes and I felt sick to my stomach. I thought, “This can’t really be happening.” He was having cybersex with her. Sometimes begging her to get him off quickly as he was on his lunch break. It was disgusting. I stalked into the kitchen, tears blurring my vision.

“Who the hell is Maple Sugar?” I was hollow.

Pierce looked trapped and confused, and tried to explain it away.

No,” I said, trembling. “No. Read the fucking conversation, Pierce. You’re fucking her.” I started sobbing, and sank to the floor in the hallway. I screamed at him that he had betrayed me and I couldn’t forgive him for hurting me like that. My heard was absolutely breaking.

He was looking at me like he didn’t know what the hell hit him.

We talked for a long time. He said he didn’t realize what he was doing and it was no big deal and he would never do it again. He insisted it was just another persona and not really him. I told him it was completely unacceptable and I didn’t know what to do. I sat in the hallway, leaning against the doorjamb of his bedroom. I felt deflated. I felt like I wanted to die.

He asked if I wanted him to take me home. I was living with Dean at the time, and I couldn’t face him. Dean didn’t like me dating his friends, and he didn’t like that I was dating Pierce. Going home and admitting that he was right — that Pierce and I were wrong for each other, and I was an idiot for jumping in wholeheartedly, with both feet — I just couldn’t do it.

Finally we went to bed. I lay fully dressed on my side of the bed, refusing to touch him. I tried to sleep, hoping when I woke up it would all be a dream. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Suddenly, manically, I was shaking him, waking him, saying “I want to read it.” Groggily, he stumbled out of bed and sat in his desk chair while I peered over his shoulder. We scrolled through every last conversation, every single word typed and exchanged. Two things stood out to me: he called her “lover” and he also said that I was an “on-again, off-again girlfriend.” He fairly sank into the chair as he kept reading further.

“Do you feel pretty awful now?” I whispered. “I hope so.” I went to bed.

He uninstalled ICQ and swore he would never use it again.

That morning, I woke up before he did and watched a movie, still unable to go home and face Dean. Pierce got up and sat across the room from me and made me some food. We hardly spoke. Coldplay was the soundtrack for that awful weekend — it was on repeat. To this day, when I hear a song from the Parachutes album, I remember sitting in the shadows at Pierce’s house, feeling broken, unable to walk away, yet again. Again. At some point, he sat next to me on the couch and asked how I was doing. We talked some more about what had happened and how deeply he had hurt me. I was tired — I had hardly slept the night before — and wanted to nap. He came with me to bed and held me. I let him.

He started crying then, and he said that he knew how badly he had messed up. When I saw those tears, I felt so hopeless and so convinced that he didn’t intentionally hurt me. I tried to believe that he hadn’t realized what he was doing to me and to us.

“I didn’t expect you to be lying next to me this morning. I don’t deserve for you to be here.” His voice broke.

The next day at work I wrote him a long letter. I was alone, again. I didn’t want to tell anyone what he had done. I was so confused about it. Was there something really wrong with him, or me? Was it okay that I considered it real cheating? My heart certainly couldn’t tell the difference. He said he would be lost without me and wanted to get past this somehow.

I should have left him, and that’s why I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. I was sure my friends, my mom, everyone would say that I should leave him. But I couldn’t. How could I leave this man, who made me Portobello mushrooms cut into hearts for Valentine’s Day? This man who wrote me sweet emails, who called me sexy, smart and amazing? This man who took me out, showed me off? He said that I was too good for him. He told me all the guys at work were jealous because I was so awesome. He loved me enough to do all the stupid things I wanted him to do, like call me each day at work, and make plans each weekend because I needed them, even though he wasn’t a planner. This man who told me he thought about me all day, from the moment he woke up to the moment he went to sleep. He had broken my heart into smithereens, but I couldn’t leave. I didn’t know how to breathe without him.

So we stayed together. But it was never quite right. I kept trying to make him into someone he wasn’t. I made up rules to satisfy my own insecurity, and then I got angry and hurt when he broke them. He didn’t want to call me every day — I insisted. He didn’t want to spend every night together — I did. He felt backed into a corner constantly. Pierce didn’t want to be controlled. And as soon as he started to pull against my needs and desires, I would back down for fear of losing him. It dovetailed nicely.

I didn’t want to love him anymore. I knew he was going to hurt me again. But I couldn’t pull away from him.

In October, after we had been dating for two and a half years, we went to Lubbock for his dad’s birthday. Things had been tense with me and Pierce for a while. He kept chafing against committing to me in some way; I kept looking for ways to be more secure in the relationship. The weekend was awkward, weird. His family, as usual, didn’t talk to me very much. Saturday night Pierce retreated to his bedroom to watch TV. I lay on the bed next to him and tried to touch him but he shied away. He was being cold and indifferent. I chalked it up to being around his parents, which always freaked him out to some extent. I gave up and went to my own bedroom. Surprisingly, he followed.

“I got the job with Tom,” he said. He was sitting at the foot of the bed; I was leaning against the pillows. Pierce had quit his job earlier that year, and tried his own thing. Several of his “own things” actually — nothing was working out, he had moved back in with his brother, and things weren’t looking great for his career.

“But the job’s here in Lubbock,” I said dully. Alarm bells were ringing in my head. This was why things had been so weird lately. Somewhere in my mind I knew he was preparing to end the relationship and I was panicked, reacting.

“And you don’t want to do long distance, so…” Pierce looked everywhere, all around the room, anywhere but at me.

It was Maple Sugar all over again. The world was swimming. This couldn’t be happening. Pierce was leaving me. The thing I had been worried about, fighting against — it was happening. My entire life I had worried how men would leave me, starting with my dad. And it was happening again.

We had another long talk. He kept clinging to the fact that I didn’t want to do a long-distance relationship and I had previously made that clear.

“I don’t prefer it,” I said slowly, “but I would be willing to work it out if you’re sure that’s what you want.” I paused, and looked at him. “You are sure about us, aren’t you?”

He hesitated, finally meeting my eyes. “I don’t know. I know what you want from this.”

“What is that?”

“You want to spend the rest of your life with me.”

“And you?” I waited, holding my breath.

“I just don’t know.” Pierce shook his head, staring at the coverlet. “I think maybe I don’t know what love is. I mean, I don’t think I ever really loved you.”

I’ll never forget those words. They fell between us with a thud. I don’t think I ever really loved you. How can you say that to someone? It had been two and a half years. We had our ups and downs, and I needed a lot of reassurance, but this? This was brutal. This was savage. I was absolutely stunned.

He left my room and I cried myself to sleep. In the morning, he asked if I wanted to come to breakfast with the family. “Are you kidding?” I asked. “Why would I want to come?”

“What should I tell them?” he asked. Since our talk, he had assumed a hangdog look that made me want to scream at him.

“Tell them whatever you want,” I snarled. “Tell them you just dumped me and it might be a bit awkward.”

While the family was gone, I called my mother and told her the story between sobs. She offered to fly me home — Lubbock was a six hour drive from Austin — but I declined. I wanted Pierce to feel as awful as I did for that long drive.

“You don’t want to be in this car with me, do you?” he said, somewhere around Sweetwater, Texas.

“No. You fucking broke my heart. What do you expect?”

As we drew closer to my apartment, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to give him the stuff he had left there because he was between places.

“Do you want any of it?” he asked.

“No, I don’t want anything that reminds me of you.”

He seemed surprised. He kept saying “This isn’t how it was supposed to go.” I was so confused. You tell your girlfriend you can’t picture a future with her, that you think you were lying about loving her and you don’t expect her to end that farce of a relationship?

“I hadn’t gotten that far,” he managed.

“How far have you gotten?” I asked.

“This conversation right now.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was clueless.

After we arrived at the apartment, I started throwing all of his stuff in bags. I slammed cabinet doors. I heard him sniffle and I realized he was crying. Let him cry, I thought. This is his mess.

He took all the bags to the car. The final item was, strangely enough, a vacuum cleaner. I set it down in front of him in the door way.

“Is this it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He just stood there, with that stupid look on his face and his hands in his pockets. And he cried.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” I said quietly, breaking finally in the presence of his tears, his real emotion.

He said he was sorry. He hugged me and I didn’t hug him back. He kissed the top of my head and said that he wished me the best. I remember thinking how lame that was. That’s the way you’re going to end our relationship?

I closed the door and sank to the floor, head in my hands, sobbing once again over this man who had completely wrecked me.

The next few months were some of the hardest of my life: I dated. I drank. I cried. I thought about him constantly. I compared everyone I met to him. I was alternately sad and angry. I wrote emails and letters that I didn’t send. I was depressed. A not insignificant amount of men told me that man must have been crazy to leave me. It almost made things worse. It just didn’t make sense to me.

In February, I heard through the grapevine that he would be in town for a wedding. I broke down and called him that Friday night. He didn’t answer, and didn’t return my call. The following day, I was eating lunch at our old favorite restaurant with my mom when he walked in. It felt like my heart stopped.

He walked up to our table; I rose to meet him. He hugged me, and I drank him in. He was wearing my favorite sweater, this cable knit forest green v-neck. He was so tall. He had a fresh haircut He told me he had gotten my message and was planning to call me that afternoon, so he would talk to me soon. After he walked away to get a table outside, I promptly burst into tears.

“I’m still in love with him,” I said to my mother.

“Maybe you should tell him that,” she said gently.

I was so nervous that afternoon that he wouldn’t call. But he did call. We met at a bar down the street from my apartment. We sat at a picnic table drinking beers and grinning at each other. He played with the label on his bottle. He confessed that he missed me, that he loved me still, thought about me twenty times a day. Lubbock was making him miserable.

“I go to sleep hugging three pillows each night,” he said. “I always wish they were you.”

The wedding he was attending started at 5 p.m., so he walked me to my car and we stood next to it, fingers entwined. I wanted so badly for him to kiss me. Then he did, and I melted.

“Stay with me tonight,” I whispered.

Pierce didn’t think it was a good idea — he didn’t know where it would leave us — more confused than ever?

“Look, we’re both miserable and we still love each other. Why don’t we just try it for now?”

He promised to call around 10 after the wedding. I went out with my friend to an Irish bar, hoping to distract myself, but as soon as the clock struck 10 p.m., I was watching my Nokia like a hawk. He waited until the excruciating time of 11:30 to call me, but it was worth it — he was on his way to the bar. We fell into each other, kissing, hugging, breathing “I love you so much.”

He stayed the night with me.

“I made a mistake, letting you go. I won’t make it again,” he told me as he left for Lubbock. The night had convinced us we could make our lives together work.

We were going to try the long distance thing after all.

He seemed like a changed man over the next few months. We coordinated visits between Austin and Lubbock. When we were together, we were like drowning people who had found a life vest in the other person. When we weren’t together, we emailed or talked on the phone. The attentive boyfriend I had always wanted him to be — had tried to make him into, stupidly — finally existed.

“He looks so happy,” my mother told me after we visited her one weekend when he was in town. “You look happy too. I think he’s changed. He’s really grown up.”

When I got laid off in late February, somehow the idea surfaced that maybe I could look for jobs in Lubbock. Pierce latched on to the idea. He was unexpectedly excited about it. He emailed job listings to me, talked to his friends, was always brainstorming and supportive. Now I see how it was really a selfish thing for him to do. After all, he didn’t see himself leaving Lubbock for several years because he needed to rebuild his career. Why not bring me in to his carefully arranged world? I could be his plaything while Lubbock bored him.

Of course there was a huge roadblock still in our way despite our new-old love. His parents. I decided the only way we could move forward and make our relationship work was if they accepted me. And for them to accept me, Pierce had to stand up for me and tell them I was his girl, that he loved me and that he planned to be with me long-term.

I learned some painful truths during that time. Pierce confessed he may have been partially responsible for his parents’ attitudes toward me. He complained about what didn’t work in our relationship, and never told them how much he cared about me. Pam was convinced the woman for him would be chosen by God, and clearly I wasn’t that person. It was clear, she told him, because when he found God’s chosen one, everything would be easy. He would never have to work at the relationship.

I should have run fast. I had almost gotten away once.

But I was so crazy in love with him and he was finally the person I had wanted. It was as if the months apart had helped him see clarity. He couldn’t stop telling me how much he loved me. How beautiful and kind and smart I was. How he was a fool before. How we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. There was a ring, he promised, and a plan.

And so it was with that backdrop that we finally had The Talk with his parents. It was a spring evening in Lubbock, following a dinner with the usual stilted conversation — me, because it was always hard for me, and I knew what was coming — Pierce, because he knew what was coming as well and he had never backed down from something his parents wanted. The fact that he would do this for me solidified the idea in my head: this man loved me.

Pierce began the discussion bravely. I was so happy he was sitting close to me, with his hand on my knee. I thought at the time it was to help me be strong, but now I wonder if maybe he needed me so that he could be strong.

“I think we all need to get our issues out on the table,” Pierce said.

I was choked with tears from the beginning of the discussion, but I managed to tell his father how I felt invisible around him. Several times he had left a dinner or an evening without saying goodbye to me. Once I arrived at a dinner and everyone had already finished eating. Pierce kept jumping in and claiming fault for parts of these interactions, but his mother didn’t want him to take any of the blame.

Suddenly she fixed me with her steely gaze. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’m sorry — what? My problem?” The conversation had been steering me toward weepy and sad, but her words had shot me through with adrenaline. I was pissed.

Pierce tried unsuccessfully to intervene. “Mom — “

She turned the gaze on him, her mouth pinched in anger. “You be quiet.” Back to me. “You have an inferiority complex. I don’t appreciate your attitude. You haven’t tried at all to fit in with the family.”

“That’s not true, I did try — “

“No, you didn’t. You aren’t good with uncomfortable situations. It’s up to you to make it better.”

At that point, I was flabbergasted in addition to angry. Why, I wanted to ask, were these “situations” so uncomfortable? Because she was correct, they indeed were uncomfortable. Excruciating might be a better word. Pierce, as he had attempted to point out, had actually created these situations by telling him about how his girlfriend was a real drag and a gold digger, and it seemed my role had simply been that I was a person his parents had never imagined for him.

Which was the point his mother drove home next, by asking me if I believed Jesus was our savior. Now, on top of my confusion, hurt and anger, she was going to tear apart my religious beliefs. Pierce gave my knee another reassuring squeeze. I explained that I didn’t believe in Jesus as the savior, but as a prophet. I haltingly told her that I believed in a number of aspects from different religions, including reincarnation. I thought her head was going to spin and pop right off her neck. Her eyes may even have bulged from their sockets. Unaware that I was damaging my life and love with Pierce beyond repair, I blundered on.

“We all have different beliefs about God,” I said, ignoring Pierce’s silence, “but it all boils down to one thing — you should love all people and all things. The specifics don’t really matter to me.”

His father, sitting across from me in a huge leather chair, looking nearly as stern as his wife, considered what I had said. He shook his head slowly, almost as if I were an idiot, which I’m sure he believed. “You and Pierce don’t have a foundation for your relationship because it’s not based on God. Everything else,” he went on, “shared interests, respect, attraction — they don’t matter without a foundation in God.”

How do you know what it’s based on? I wanted to yell. I wanted to yell at Pierce too — he was part of the problem here — talking trash to his family about me for the past two and a half years.

“You shouldn’t be sleeping together either,” his father continued, his fingers steepled together in an illustration of a foundation. It reminded me of the Saturday Night Live skit about George P. Bush — “1,000 points of light” and I wanted to laugh deliriously because this was going from bad to worse. Worse than I had even imagined, if that were even possible.

“Because marriage is a covenant, not a contract. And if you’re taking all the benefits of marriage, then you’re just trying it out, and that’s not right.”

The fight went out of me. I had underestimated my opponents. Resigned to listening, I heard his father tell us that a contract means that you can back out if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain; and a covenant is only broken by death. “And not only that. You’re not considering what God wants for you; you’re selfishly only thinking of yourselves.”

It was his mother who finally delivered the death blow. “I will not allow my son to marry a woman who believes in reincarnation,” she said, fixing us again with her stare. “It is an Islam belief and that is wrong.”

Then she told me if I accepted Jesus Christ as my savior that he would fix my inferiority complex.

Remember how I said I should have run?

Yeah. As fast as my legs would carry me.

The lecture completed, Pierce drove me to my hotel room. I was so emotionally wrecked I couldn’t really talk. We sat in the depressing glow of a table lamp and he said, “Do you love me?”

I nodded. I did love him, but at what cost?

“Good, because I love you,” he told me, wrapping me in his arms. “You’re the one for me.”

He couldn’t stay with me, of course, because of his parents. I couldn’t stop crying, even after he left. I dreamed he broke up with me, again, and it was so real that waking up felt like I was still trapped in a nightmare. Because I was.

We kept up our long distance relationship for the next two months. The relationship even marginally improved with his parents. We tolerated each other, much like my pets do now — the Labrador giving my old cat a wide berth, as she cautiously sniffs at him. It was better than out and out war, but the words they had hurled at me that night in March still haunted me. I suppose I knew they weren’t going to let us happen, but again, I underestimated them. I believed that our love would trump everything.

In late May, I got a job in Lubbock. I was ecstatic to finally join Pierce and put an end to our long distance relationship. But leaving Austin — again — was hard. We had an impromptu going-away party with friends and family. My friend Monica hugged me fiercely and told me not to put too much pressure on Pierce. He was going to be my only friend for a while. “But he’s not responsible for your happiness,” she reminded me. “Keep it in check.” I promised I would try.

She was right. Life in Lubbock was a roller coaster of emotion. Even though we were finally living in the same town, he was still living at his parents’ house. That meant we couldn’t spend the night together. There were so many nights that I just wanted him by my side, and I hated it when he’d pull away and say it was time for him to go home. I think there was a part of me that felt if he really loved me and wanted to start a life with me, he’d stand up to them on this. The big talk had been a huge step, but I needed more from him.

I always needed more.

My job also required that I travel quite a bit. Sometimes I was away for 10 day long trips, flying into airports in large cities and then driving to stores that were off the beaten path. I have never been particularly good at going somewhere on my own, forging a new path. I get lonely and scared and unsure of what to do. I function best when I have a routine, when I’m confident I’ve handled each thing that’s coming my way each day. So moving to a new city, starting a new job as a Sales Trainer — something completely new for me! — and trying to get on track with this man I was obsessively, crazily in love with — was difficult for me. So much change all at once will make anyone a little crazy, and I was already crazy.

It was especially hard for me to believe that Pierce was serious this time around, no matter what he said. The experience with Maple Sugar, the previous breakup and his harsh words wouldn’t leave me. In my lowest moments, I remembered them and they played through my head like a serious of sad movies. When I would tearfully confess my thoughts to Pierce, he would reassure me.

“I don’t just stop loving you,” he told me one night.

“But you did,” I said.

“I never stopped loving you. I was confused and mixed up.”

It worried me. What if he got confused and mixed up again?

Those were the bad times. There were great ones — didn’t I say Lubbock was a roller coaster? Pierce would tell me all the time I was the prettiest girl in the room. He would always make sure we talked on the phone while I was gone. He was patient with me. We had fun: Willie Nelson concerts, restaurants, bars and art openings. Sometimes he would join me on a work trip and we’d have a little vacation. July Fourth weekend we watched the neighborhood parade. Over cheese fries and drinks at Cricket’s, we talked about getting married in Belize. Afterward, we would have a reception in Lubbock and a reception in Austin. Pierce’s friend Ben was a jewelry designer and Pierce hinted, with a gleam in his eye and a grin on his face, that Ben was already working on something special.

I couldn’t wait to get that ring on my finger. I kept hoping it would fix what was broken with me — maybe I could look at the ring and the prior hurts would disappear. No more Maple Sugar, no more of his parents’ ire, no more wondering. Maybe that ring would spell confidence and security.

I know now how stupid that was.

I started to catch Pierce in little lies. I’d be out of town and he supposedly went to a party, but Ben would say, “What party? We went to that new club.” Or I’d return to the table at the bar and everyone would clam up because of the story Pierce had just told — “I swear to God that story was about my brother and a strip club in Mexico” — when it was nothing of the kind. He started hanging out with his beautiful blond colleague after work. When he’d tell me he was leaving work, he was really at her apartment doing drugs. I was helping him pay his bills because he was terrible at paying anything on time. I had access to his cell phone records online. I saw 900 numbers. And I saw repeated calls to a local number, always late at night, after he had left my apartment. Was he cheating — again — this time via phone? When I asked him about it, he claimed it was the blond colleague’s mother, and it had something to do with managing a band. At one a.m.? The conversation about the late night local phone calls happened in the backyard at his parents’ house, and Pierce was annoyed I would bring it up. He was defensive and nervously smoked a cigarette and kept glancing inside to see if they could tell we were fighting.

He delivered the second death knell, broke my heart again, in December. I had been in Lubbock for about six months, and my birthday was days away. We got into a stupid fight over the phone — Pierce wanted his space — and I pointed out that when you get married, you don’t have that kind of space.

“You know, presumably we’d live together and spend the night together every night,” I spit at him.

“I don’t know if that’s what I want,” Pierce said.

I felt sick.

He came over at my insistence so we could actually talk. I hate the phone, and especially for something like this. He sat heavily on my purple couch. “I just haven’t been happy lately,” he told me. He said t wasn’t just me. But as we delved into it, he accused me of resenting his family and said that I didn’t understand how he needed them in his life. In halting words, he went on to say I hadn’t tried hard enough to get back into their good graces. Then, in even an even more bizarre turn, he said that he couldn’t deal with our conflicting beliefs.

“We have an Eastern philosophy vs. a Western philosophy and that won’t work,” he said. I started at him. It was as if Pam were feeding him lines off stage.

I again made a last ditch effort to save our relationship. “We’re good, Pierce. We’re really good. People are trying to find what we have.”

He agreed. But then he said, “I think we both know deep-down that marriage won’t work for us.”

“Sounds like your mother told you what to say.”

He protested — “No, these are my feelings” — but I didn’t believe him. I still don’t. His parents told him to end it, and he did.

“I just need some time to get my head on straight and figure things out,” Pierce said, running his hands through his hair.

“I thought you had,” I whispered, my eyes pooling with tears.

He said he needed a couple of days.

“What am I supposed to do? Just sit here alone in my apartment?” I retorted.

He shrugged, but he didn’t get up.

“Well, are you leaving?”

“Yeah,” he answered. But he still didn’t get up. After a few minutes, he finally stood. He looked down at me and said, “I love you” and tried to kiss me. He got a corner of my forehead. Then he grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go and tried to kiss me again — this time on the corner of my lips. He stood at my door and looked like he was going to cry again. It was like a carbon copy of the year before, standing at the doorway to my apartment. He was making this decision, it was killing him, and he somehow wanted me to fix it, when I had nothing to do with it.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, still sitting on the couch.

He mumbled something about calling me when he could. I didn’t respond. I stared ahead at the television, which was muted, the actors on One Tree Hill playing out their fictional drama as my real one unfolded. My dinner sat untouched.

After six days of silence, he came over again, simply to confirm what I already knew. I can still see him standing in the kitchen, edging toward the garage door, while I sat in the same position on the couch as the week before. “I fully expect to walk into a Barnes and Noble someday and pick up your book and read about the asshole on page 36.”

Here you are, Pierce: your page 36.