If I attempted the purchase of condoms at noon on a Friday in Walmart, there was a 95% chance I’d have an aneurysm waiting for lady with kankle’s to realize she was blocking the entire aisle as she stared at a mushed doughnut display and fantasized about smearing them on her skinny biker boyfriend. 

(Why?  Why is it always skinny biker = fat chick.  And usually large biker = hot chick.  Although not as often as large bikers wish.) 

That’s ironic because Tom would probably not be worried about getting me pregnant while having sex with my corpse. 

When Tom asks why the saran wrap is on his nightstand, I’m going to direct him this way.

For Valentine’s day (or really, the Sunday before since Tom flew out Monday AM), I requested we watch Casablanca.  Tom always vetos any movie choice I make in black and white, so it’s been forever since I saw it.  I forgot how awesome it is, and Tom admitted it was much better than he was antiscipating. 

We had the following conversation afterwards:

Me:  Baby, I’d totally sleep with a cafe owner for your letter of transit.

Him:  Yeah?

Me:  Yeah.

Him:  Baby, you’d sleep with a cafe owner for my bar tab.

Me:  Yeah?

Him: Yeah.

Me:  Yeah.

I just finished watching “It’s Complicated” with grandma.  First time I’ve thought about W (my ex-husband) in a wistful time-goes-by kind of way.

I know it must be different for him.  He doesn’t drive by our old house every week, hang out with the same friend, etc.  He must not think about me as often as I think about him. 

In pondering that sentence, I think it’s kind of a miracle that I think about him as little as I do!  But it still must be more than he thinks about me.

Probably at least once a month, I tell our story to someone. That he is married, has two sons, and that I am very happy for him.

I know it’s a line, perhaps the divorce company line, but it’s true.  I believe he is happier now than he was with me and it gives me great relief to think this.   But tonight, after seeing that movie, I have a strong desire to not just think it.  I wish I could know. I wish he and I were in contact and civil and I could see him happy with his wife and family.

(I almost wrote new wife, but erased it.  She has been married to him longer than I was, and has made more of a life with him.  At this point, I would never presume to call myself first anything in his life.)

The sons were almost enough to rid me of guilt over the divorce. I, and in turn he, were adamant about no children.  For him to do a complete 180 on the subject proves I was not the woman for him.

But, knowing another woman pushed his children into this world is still not quite the spiritual cleansing I am looking for. 

I no longer look back and wonder what happened.  I’ve come to the conclusion I won’t ever know.  For better or worses, I view the marriage like any other break up.  Worse because of the commitment and time spent together for sure.  But like so many men I look back fondly on, I chalk it up to timing, miscommunication, and different needs.

(That I view my marriage in the same manner as a 5-month fling was a huge clue to me that I was not exactly cut out for I dos)

The miscommunication was astounndly brilliant between us.  Another reason I stopped seeking answers of our demise.  I already know that there will be my side, his side, and the truth.  It was painful for both of us in the very end to realize we could not get on the same book, let alone the same page.

I would like to look upon his life, not as an ex, and not exactly as a friend because even I am aware that is awkward and boundary crossing, but as an acquaintance.  I wish we had had reason to stay in touch.

I wish I could see him smile at her.

More than once I’ve been questioned why I’m friends with exes.  Sometimes it’s from a well-meaning friend who sees romantic encounters as so separate from friendships.  (Which, by the way, I believe is a philosophy that dooms you.)

But a few times it was from current beaus.  And looking back, I think even at the time I knew they were asking because they were concerned about holding up the inevitable friendship end of the bargain I felt they had struck with me from the first inappropriate groping in a piano bar or bookstore.

I stand by my decision.  I don’t date losers.  Or marry them for that matter.  Or spend time with them on a voluntary basis.  I find myself way too entertaining to bother with the messy social stuff with those I deem unworthy.

And it’s also the loyal nature of my personality.  Once I let you in, you’re in.

Not to say it’s always been easy.  An ex can hurt you just by their very existence.  As I believe almost the last single one of mine is slipping from bachelorhood to something less solo (I knew the days were numbered when he committed to a rescue dog), there is ALWAYS the question of why her and not me.  I don’t think any of my exes are even half as suited for me as Tom, but every time one of them finds someone special, it still hurts my pride that I did indeed not rock their world to the core.

Save Skip.  My first ex to do an 180 on me.  On a road trip back from visiting my family unannounced because he still pined for me (Dad: “We gave him pie.  We weren’t sure what else to do.”), he stopped to visit a friend who became his wife and mother of his child.  While it was my first shock of how transient even the most visceral feeling can be, it was also a sweet relief that he found someone else.

So why do it?  Why keep someone in your life who’s presence reminds you of something you lost or were missing or messed up or threw away?

For my 35th birthday, I received an email from the gentleman who took me to my senior prom.  We had a fun run of a relationship, although it was deeply marred by his attraction to one of my school classmates.  An attraction that blossomed in fact at said prom.  For years we ran hot and cold with each other, but for the most part remained civil.  When he moved away, he quickly found “the one”, and our friendship has strengthened despite the distance.

The email was a continuation of a thread started with some of the other changes going on in my life.  And in this particular email, in discussing my strength of taking chances in life in order to be happy, he said, “You’re a hero to me in this regard and I won’t have you wearing out.”

Oh.

I understand some exes are not worthy of another thought.  And in all this worship of past loves, I have a few who have escaped unfriended.  But just as an ex can hurt by having been a person close to your heart, they can heal.  They can revel in your triumphs, understand your wounds, and remind you why you put up with them in the first place.

In the past few weeks I have been contacted/visited by/seen randomly about five or so exes.

Some of these exes are well aware of this blog…Hell, it played a role in a few of those romances and is the way at least one of these guys still keeps tabs on me.

I am sure at some point curiosity and the cat will get together and at least a few of them will stop by here to see what, if anything, I might have mentioned.  I could certainly wax poetic over the past, or describe the ironic/strange/awkward situations.  But I seem to have drifted away from that voice.

So….in general, to all men I might have dated/slept with/been married to….

1)  At some point, for some amount of time, you rocked my world and I thank you for it.  I don’t date losers (minus one horrible meal at Carrabba’s), so I still think of you highly no matter what the outcome of us.

2)  I hope you are enjoying life.  It seems like most of you are.

When my family came to visit for the holidays, we were blessed with warm weather.  This was unusual because the temperature always seems to dip into the teens (OK, forties) when my mother crosses the state line.

We took advantage by eating on the outside patio of Sea Critters, by far my favorite sea food restaurant in the Tampa Bay area.  Tom and I have successfully entertained many out-of-town guests there, as well as just gone for a twosome meal every now and then.  But remember, I’ve lived in this area for ten+ years now.  Sea Critters has been one of my go-to spots for almost as long.

Which led to the following conversation at the dinner table with my entire family…

Him:  It’s not too bad this time.  We usually have to wait.

Me:  Not always.

Him:  Yes, at least a little bit.

Me:  Not the time I got drunk off Mai Tais.

Him: ….

Me:  Maybe that wasn’t you.

Him:  Yes, you really should change states when changing husbands so that doesn’t happen.

Me:  Wasn’t a husband.

Him:  Well, hell.  There’s not enough states to start covering the rest of them!

You might wonder…what’s being married to Jessica like?

I’d probably liken it to hell.  Or itchy too tight socks.

How would you like to be married to a woman who doesn’t believe in marriage?

A woman who will always put herself first, her job firster, and never apologize for it?

A woman who has just answered the phone, “I am trying to write a drunken post about how nice you are so what the fuck do you want?”

And yet…

I’m home stewing and drunk because of something that upset me.  Something I can do nothing about.  I can get over it, or completely change my life.

And damn if that man can’t make me get over it.

It almost makes a woman who doesn’t believe in marriage cry when she looks at the rings on her fingers.

It’s just a disconnect.

I’m disconnected from what I used to write about – the people, the situations, the decisions.

I’m also physically disconnected.  While I may turn on the computer at home for a little Solitaire downtime, if I open a browser I inevitably end up at my work email, or fixing a problem with the online store, or double-checking a number from an online spreadsheet.

I’ve used my powers of the internets to create good for the sanctuary and now I am all tapped out.

I don’t want to be this way.  I took a quick trip up to Chicago to see the family and the urge to write was so great I bought a new journal there even though I had a perfectly new untouched journal waiting for me in Florida.  I filled up that little journal with eight pages in three days.  I told myself I’d put it at my bedside and write a little something – anything – every night to get back in the swing of things.

Nada.

I went to Chicago because my father into the hospital again – his third stay and his second surgery.  It was a bit frustrating because I didn’t get to see a doctor while I was there and during my trip it looked like he might be sent home only to have things change last minute.  (He has since been released with a contraption stuck in his side and then also had that contraption removed.  Things look better but we are not out of the woods yet.)

I came up on a Friday and worked a farmer’s market with my mother on Saturday.  It scares me how easy the set-up/take down is for me and how difficult it is for them.  They are too old to continue that work without help much longer.  Every time I visit and help with the lavender farm I think about Tom and I joining them.  There is more than enough land for us to build a house there.  And there is more than enough opportunities to expand (whether on the farm itself or the surrounding area) to keep us happy and busy.  This isn’t just pity for my parents or guilt or anything like that – I don’t think those emotions have ever come into play in our relationship.  I just always have a great time when I’m there and know that in general that type of lifestyle (which is not too different from our current situation) appeals.

But then I also spent most of the trip telling everyone how happy I am.  I finally found a place I belong.  Of course I always felt I belonged as a volunteer, but now the final piece of the puzzle fits – I work at a non-profit where my liberal tendencies are accepted if not embraced, and I happen to be quite good at many aspects of the non-profit office management.  Granted my hours are shit and being quite good at stuff tends to drive you a little insane when you’re called upon to perform miracles at the drop of a hat.  But I still love it.  I wake up in the morning and want to be here.  I don’t think many people can say that about their job.

When we were done with the farmer’s market, my mother drove off to the farm and I stayed at the townhome in Chicago.  I did feel a bit weird not opting to go with her, but it was how she had envisioned the weekend going and I loved her for it.  I got a little time to just unwind.  George and Francesca and I went out to dinner for Ethiopian food that night, and then I went to the zoo on Sunday.

I haven’t been to the Lincoln Park zoo in a long time.  Much of it hasn’t changed from what I remember.  A few people made rumbles about coming with me (including George and Francesca) but I was happy to be alone.  I don’t think I’m very much fun at an animal attraction.  It’s like taking a flight with a pilot as a passenger, or eating a burger with someone who works at a slaughter house.

I had two slight ulterior motives for going to the zoo.  One was that it was near a convenient meeting place for my dinner companion.  Another was that I knew two keepers there, although I had lost their phone number in my harried packing for the trip.  I managed to find one in the farm area and it was quite delightful to catch up.  They are a married couple, so when the shift ended I walked with her to their car and got to see him as well.

I wished them well and then walked a mile or so to dinner.  This was one of my favorite parts of the trip – just walking the north side (Clark Street to be exact), wearing my iPod and remembering the feel of a city.  You don’t walk places in Florida – your movement is confined and air conditioned and dependent upon lights, other travelers, and construction work.  It’s all about how little hassle you can manage to get there as soon as possible.  I miss putting one foot in front of the other and keeping myself company until however long it takes to get there.

I got there before he did, so I sat down and pulled out the journal for a few quick sentences.  Then CB walked in and we did the awkward half-stand/half-sit hug.

The Certain Boy (CB) and I had not spoken in maybe a year and a half…yeesh.  I just did a bit of email-sleuthing.  It appears perhaps 3 and a half years?  Wow.  At any rate, we had a falling out that was more about the fact that we weren’t in a place to be friends at the moment.  We had had a failed relationship (which in some ways started me blogging), then he sort of tugged on the romantic connection months later when I was just starting a new relationship, then I sort of tugged back months after that when my relationship ended and he was starting one himself.  My life spiraled a bit in the downwards direction and I was looking for things to hold on to.  I think he was looking to not be one of those things in fear of our past becoming present.

So we didn’t talk.  For three years or so.  I always felt like it wasn’t right but I also didn’t feel like I was ready to bridge any gaps.  I was busy looking forward and I just couldn’t afford to look back.

I hate to say that it took a solid relationship – a marriage even – to make me feel like it was safe to start mending fences.  But it’s true.  Before I always thought that contacting someone after you’re coupled was sort of throwing it in someone’s face.  Now I am more of the mindset that some situations call for that much black-and-white, right-and-wrong, sin-and-no-sin distinctions.

Of course, the last time I reached out to him, I was also married.  Yet another reason why I hate the social conventions and implications of a ring and a piece of paper.  Suffice to say, this time it was different.

At Christmas, I sent two cards out.  One was to my ex-husband and his new wife.  One was to CB.  In both I simply mentioned I missed them and hoped that they were well.

I heard back from CB via email.  We quickly put the past behind us by simply catching each other up to the present.  After a few back and forths, there wasn’t much else to say.  We went back to our respective corners, silent but comfortable.

So when I arranged for the trip to Chicago, I contacted the few people I still knew in the area including him.

It was good to see him.  Nothing and everything has changed – including the bond we have.  We had Indian at my request and his delight.  He had just gotten back from Glacier park and had a good time.  He had been looking for a career path and it sounds like he found one that I think suits him well.

I’d forgotten how small-minded he can make me feel at times.  Perhaps the only person in the world that can make me feel conservative and unaware.  It’s something that I relished at times – I saw it as a stretching and growing experience.  But in the end, I think it just makes me feel tired.

I was more quiet than I usually am.  I felt bad, as if I was putting pregnant pauses in our conversation.  As if we had some big elephant sitting in the corner I was waiting for him to acknowledge.

I was just a little overwhelmed from being outside around people all day, tired from my work schedule and how the trip fit into it, and enjoying a slower pace.  While I wondered and worried that the silence was awkward for him, it wasn’t for me.  And I didn’t feel compelled to change it.

He walked me back to the car, then I drove him to the El.  (Then I promptly got lost getting back on Lake Shore Drive.  But then I promptly re-traced my steps and got unlost.  But this story isn’t about my usual clutziness, is it?)

I was tempted when I got back to Florida to shoot him a little email – good to see you, glad you’re on a good path.  But what the point have been?  To get a little email back?  I am glad we are back to being friends, but how does that work exactly when one of you is married and in Florida while the other is single and in Chicago?

The truth is, I would have sent a little email to keep me connected.  To a past or a future or what I’m not sure.  So I guess that’s why I didn’t send it.  I am enjoying my present immensely.  But the trip, my family, CB, the keeper friends, and even the city itself remind me there still a whole future to figure out.

Five minutes after Tom has told me a rather raunchy story from his past…

“I’m so happy.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t think most husbands can tell their wives stories like that.”

“Uh, like what?”

(Fingers smeared under nose such as end of said story) “That story.”

“Oh.  Well, whatever.”

“I’m so lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Yup.”

“That you have a crass slut as a wife?”

“Yup.”

“Ok then.”

What level of hell do you get sent to if you plan to seduce your husband with a mix tape given to you by an ex?