Written last June and probably not shared for good reason

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.

Progress date February 24, 2004

The snafu I walked into this morning was my fault. Totally. It might have been less of one had boss #1 remembered a few discussions, or boss #2 hadn’t known why I ditched out yesterday. No one likes a reminder that work is not your number one priority. (Although he has often chided me for making it such a high priority when I’ve pulled a 24-hour shift. You can please some of the people all of the…)

I hate that I enjoy my job so much that I want to cry over this. I let people down. I was let down.

The thing that I don’t get is that both #1 and #2 always comment on how I got dumped with too much work, too many important tasks, and that I’ve done a kick ass job considering. I’ve been in meetings where I represent half of the dozen interfaces discussed. (Other people = one or two)

Are the mistakes I make an outcome of just being overworked? Am I multitasking to a point that to err is human? Or is there something flawed in my approach that allows for these slip-ups?

I guess I’m down because I want to do a kick ass job. No qualifier or explanation needed.

It rained all last night. I love this weather. I used to go to pass-a-grille and walk the entire length – from the “To Public Beach” sign, to the concrete pier that the fisherman use – during downpours.

I’ve huddled against someone on that pier during a hurricane who turned out not to do it for me. I walked hand-in-hand over that sand with someone who didn’t want the date to end after dinner-and-a-movie (and we still ended up back at my place, watching “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”), but turned out not to want to do it for me.

I drove to that beach with W only to not get out the car, taking advantage of the mood thunderstorms put me in.

But mostly, I remember Monica. Junior year. No boys (er, for the most part). Our own apartment. Mornings of cappaccino and grapefruit halves. Nights of sand, seashells, and rain.

2009 Progress Update

I skipped around my folder a bit.  I didn’t neccesarily want to choose items to share in chronological order.  It would seem like I’m telling a story.  And I’m not, at least not to my knowledge.

The first part, the job part, hits home because I feel a sprained my ankle in part due to over-working.  (I deleted “being over worked” because that implies someone other than myself put the heavy on me.)  So, obviously I’m very much the same.

The last part, the beach and men and Monica part…I haven’t had many close female friends in my life.  Or close friends period.  The sprained ankle brings it out in me as well – I can’t stand the incessant questions regarding my health from collegues and volunteers.

I always thought I was good about being friends and keeping in touch with people.  But they have babies and I have jobs and here we are.  Or, here I am.  We implies the babies and the jobs didn’t change anything.  And they did.  They always do.