Dear Scott,
Two weeks ago today, you left us behind. All of us: your daughters, your family, your friends, your co-workers, even us, your ex-fiance and my kids. It supersedes reason and it makes no sense and we're all here wondering what the fuck.
For days after I found out, I was in a daze of shock and sadness. Those two feelings curled up inside of me and nested way deep inside of me, making me vulnerable to tearful outbursts at the slightest provocation. Like how you loved flowers and I cried at the store when I saw the cheerful bouquets of daisies and roses--oh, how the roses were your favorite. You loved to go for long bike rides wearing that god-awful neon green/yellow sleeveless shirt, so when I saw a guy biking the other day in a similar get-up, I laughed before I sobbed. Last Monday, I went to that Bonfire Grill by your house and talked with the bartender, just like we used to. But the emotions hit me like a ton of bricks and even though I tried desperately to hide my tears, Todd the Bartender gave me a glass of red, on the house. You'd remember Todd if you saw him - we'd had him before as a server. And PS - it was a really good glass of cab.
A week of this went on - these painful memories pecking away at my beat-up old heart - and I decided I had to Get.It.Together. Set the jaw, get to work, and make life move forward. For next week, I busted my ass at work and put in long days, pulling together projects and people and pieces of paper like a goddamn champ. The more I worked, the more normal I started to feel. I know I used to bitch about how much you worked, but maybe now I understand it a little better: how work can be such a tool to avoid real life and how burying your face in your computer is far preferable to facing life.
And now, somehow despite the set jaw and the hard work, I'm right back to where I was the first week: emotional, rundown, grieving. Only this time, I'm both sad and angry. I'm angry at me and I'm angry at you and I'm angry at God (ya hear me, dude?!). Your friends keep messaging me on Facebook - bless them for reaching out, for searching for something that makes sense, for offering condolences and prayers. Friends of yours that I had never met are finding me somehow and it's both touching and agonizing. I didn't know how many people in your life even knew my name.
Grieving has got to be one of the loneliest processes for humans to go through. No one wants to talk about my deceased ex-fiance - this guy that I once loved and shared a home and a family with, broke up with, and who now is no longer here. I mean, that's awkward on 101 levels, and I get it. There aren't too many people in my life now that know what we went through, that know your beautiful daughters and how much I love them, that know how hard we worked to build a family in spite of some pretty big obstacles. And no one at all really knows how we sorta succeeded and, if we're being honest, also how we mostly failed. I know I said it then, but it bears repeating that I'm sorry for my part in all of it.
Since you left, a tangled ball of emotion lives in my chest. My therapist calls it anxiety, but that sounds too narrow right now. It's anxiety, but it's also anger, hurt, disgust, sadness, worry, guilt, and sorrow. This tangled ball accompanies me to Starbucks each morning, hangs out while I'm in meetings at work, pokes me when I'm out for a long walk in the evening. Its weight grows more heavy as the day wears on until I fall, exhausted, into bed...and then we start over in the morning.
I'm trying hard to let the sun shine on our good times and dim the lights on the rough times as much as I can, but I don't know if that's even the right response or not? Remember when you taught me to garden and how I was most thrilled when the pea pods and six-foot tall sunflowers grew? So cool that they actually grew from seeds - I mean, SEEDS! - oh and how you teased me for being a city girl. How we binge-watched Dexter in the first few months we were dating--we ate pizza on the living room floor so that we didn't miss a single minute of a single episode. I think about these moments and smile...and then my mind inevitably turns to the darker moments of arguments and sleeping on the far edge of the bed, avoiding each other even in our slumber. Did I try hard enough? Is there anything I should've done differently? I lay awake and second-guess myself now.
I'm trying to be tough on the outside, but I can feel myself withdrawing on the inside. It's a lot of fake smiles these days (yeah, you would TOTALLY be calling me out on that!) because my thoughts race sometimes about all of this and more stuff that I can't write about here. I feel guilty about being so sad because we broke up, right? I feel guilty about being so upset because your girls and your family must be feeling it 10x worse. I feel guilty about the sorrow because I don't feel like I have a right to it. And I can't expect anyone to listen to me about it...except the therapist who makes $150/hour to listen, so I guess he kinda has to.
You're missing the Republican and Democratic Party Conventions now- I know you'd be following them closely and ready to argue with me over the dinner table. I'm trying to ready myself for moments like this - things that you would've loved that will sneak up on me as memories. It's going to take time to build up that sort of fortitude.
At the end of the day, you were a guy who wore his heart on his military-pressed sleeve and who had stories to tell but no words with which to share them. Things between us ended terribly and I carry that weight in my heart now.
I'll keep an eye on your girls as much as I can; they are your legacy in this world and their successes, even at these young ages, are a testament to you. Rest now.
Leah
Monday, July 25, 2016
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Lemonade from a Monkey
Today was, by any standard of measurement, a beautiful summer day. Just over 80 degrees here in Minnie, low humidity, bright sunshine, a gentle breeze. And it was made even more perfect given the fact that I was enjoying a few stolen moments with my boyfriend at the fire station where he works. I was sitting out on the apron in front of the trucks, sneaking a few kisses when the other guys weren't looking, and letting sheer happiness settle inside of my heart.
Enter Jack Monkey, stage right. Because every story has an antagonist, right?
We had been watching the news and there was a story about a camp for kids to learn about the importance of bees. It filled with the usual gaggle of innocent children and cute sound bites, and to make conversation, I turned to the guy next to me (hereafter known as Jack Monkey) and jokingly asked him if he was next in line to go to Bee Camp. He smiled and replied that he had actually wanted to have an apiary and some chickens, but he and his wife have a small city lot and she said no. He smiled and described the scene at home: their 125-pound dog, two kids, and her trying to get everyone tucked into bed.
"I mean, she's a single mom right now since I'm at work, and she didn't even make any bad choices," Jack Monkey tells me, as if we're just talking about some as non-controversial as the color of the sky.
As I do when I'm caught completely off-guard, I tried to turn my hanging-open mouth into a semblance of a smile. "Oh," I replied sweetly, "well, I'm a single mom."
Of course, he stumbled and fumbled to recover his words, and I accepted his cover story about his sister who, evidently, made some "bad choices" and had kid(s?) out of wedlock. I smiled at his tall tale and swallowed the acid of his lies.
There are so many things wrong with his statement that, truly, I could write a book. But I'm going to settle for one single (see what I did there?!) point: stereotypes.
Jack Monkey has stereotype problems. Jack Monkey didn't know I was a single mom because I don't fit his mold: I'm suburban. For him, single moms are urban, impoverished, struggling. Single moms don't live in the suburbs, drive an SUV, or date firefighters.
But the other piece is this: no one would ever, in a million years, look at a single dad and say, "Well there's a guy who made some bad choices in his life." Because single dads get high fives. They get a "thanks for being a stand-up guy" award. A single dad walking down the sidewalk, pushing a stroller, gets ogled by young women as we marvel over the kind of person he must be. Life is graded on a curve for single dads. And as with so many other areas of life, women have to work twice as hard to get the same reward.
All of this is on a very macro level; I don't want to disparage my friends who truly are stand-up guys. And I am always grateful to my friends that support my single mom journey. It's likely that Jack Monkey is a nice person to the single moms in his life - because the odds are such that he probably knows at least a handful. But it's the overall negative societal point of view that allows Jack Monkey to make his sexist, racist statement and feel okay doing so in mixed company.
Senator Rick Santorum (R-PA), a former candidate for president of the United States, had this to say about single mothers:
"We are seeing the fabric of this country fall apart, and it's falling apart because of single moms."
So should we even be surprised when Joe Citizen, just a regular guy working as a line firefighter in the Midwest, pops off with some equally repellent comment? Vitriol from our public officials is having a distinct trickle-down effect, and I saw it before my own eyes tonight.
And honestly, what does it say about me that I smiled and dropped the topic? I'm sitting here, hours later, struggling with what my response should have been. I wish I would've popped off with any number of sharp comments, but I couldn't - these are the boyfriend's coworkers. Keeping the peace is part of the long term plan. And at the end of it: Jack Monkey's comments weren't personally directed at me. He took a swipe at my people, and I will find a way to fight back against his kind. In some ways, I take it as a win that I managed to hold my temper and bite my tongue. Jack Monkey may have won the battle, but he won't win the war.
This world is changing faster than any of us could have imagined 20 years ago. It's more and more okay to talk about who we are, what we are, where we came from. For me: I carry no shame in being a single mom. I have struggled, I've cried, I've fallen and I've had to come back kicking. My kids know that I'm a fighter, that I'm passionate, and that I have a fire for what I know to be true and right. I wouldn't want to parent in any other way.
So...hey you - hey Jack Monkey: challenge accepted.
Enter Jack Monkey, stage right. Because every story has an antagonist, right?
We had been watching the news and there was a story about a camp for kids to learn about the importance of bees. It filled with the usual gaggle of innocent children and cute sound bites, and to make conversation, I turned to the guy next to me (hereafter known as Jack Monkey) and jokingly asked him if he was next in line to go to Bee Camp. He smiled and replied that he had actually wanted to have an apiary and some chickens, but he and his wife have a small city lot and she said no. He smiled and described the scene at home: their 125-pound dog, two kids, and her trying to get everyone tucked into bed.
"I mean, she's a single mom right now since I'm at work, and she didn't even make any bad choices," Jack Monkey tells me, as if we're just talking about some as non-controversial as the color of the sky.
As I do when I'm caught completely off-guard, I tried to turn my hanging-open mouth into a semblance of a smile. "Oh," I replied sweetly, "well, I'm a single mom."
Of course, he stumbled and fumbled to recover his words, and I accepted his cover story about his sister who, evidently, made some "bad choices" and had kid(s?) out of wedlock. I smiled at his tall tale and swallowed the acid of his lies.
There are so many things wrong with his statement that, truly, I could write a book. But I'm going to settle for one single (see what I did there?!) point: stereotypes.
Jack Monkey has stereotype problems. Jack Monkey didn't know I was a single mom because I don't fit his mold: I'm suburban. For him, single moms are urban, impoverished, struggling. Single moms don't live in the suburbs, drive an SUV, or date firefighters.
But the other piece is this: no one would ever, in a million years, look at a single dad and say, "Well there's a guy who made some bad choices in his life." Because single dads get high fives. They get a "thanks for being a stand-up guy" award. A single dad walking down the sidewalk, pushing a stroller, gets ogled by young women as we marvel over the kind of person he must be. Life is graded on a curve for single dads. And as with so many other areas of life, women have to work twice as hard to get the same reward.
All of this is on a very macro level; I don't want to disparage my friends who truly are stand-up guys. And I am always grateful to my friends that support my single mom journey. It's likely that Jack Monkey is a nice person to the single moms in his life - because the odds are such that he probably knows at least a handful. But it's the overall negative societal point of view that allows Jack Monkey to make his sexist, racist statement and feel okay doing so in mixed company.
Senator Rick Santorum (R-PA), a former candidate for president of the United States, had this to say about single mothers:
"We are seeing the fabric of this country fall apart, and it's falling apart because of single moms."
So should we even be surprised when Joe Citizen, just a regular guy working as a line firefighter in the Midwest, pops off with some equally repellent comment? Vitriol from our public officials is having a distinct trickle-down effect, and I saw it before my own eyes tonight.
And honestly, what does it say about me that I smiled and dropped the topic? I'm sitting here, hours later, struggling with what my response should have been. I wish I would've popped off with any number of sharp comments, but I couldn't - these are the boyfriend's coworkers. Keeping the peace is part of the long term plan. And at the end of it: Jack Monkey's comments weren't personally directed at me. He took a swipe at my people, and I will find a way to fight back against his kind. In some ways, I take it as a win that I managed to hold my temper and bite my tongue. Jack Monkey may have won the battle, but he won't win the war.
This world is changing faster than any of us could have imagined 20 years ago. It's more and more okay to talk about who we are, what we are, where we came from. For me: I carry no shame in being a single mom. I have struggled, I've cried, I've fallen and I've had to come back kicking. My kids know that I'm a fighter, that I'm passionate, and that I have a fire for what I know to be true and right. I wouldn't want to parent in any other way.
So...hey you - hey Jack Monkey: challenge accepted.
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Mergers & Acquisitions
Dearest Reader,
As you know, there are a lot of tried-and-true metaphors about dating: the catch-and-release of fishing, the job interview, the tennis match--all true and valid in their own right. So now I offer up another one: mergers and acquisitions.
In the business world, mergers happen often and only the big marriages make the news: Time Warner + Comcast (fail), Caribou Coffee + Krispy Kreme donuts (yay!), ESPN + Disney (surprisingly decent). These marriages are done with a lot of forethought and work during the acquisition phase, including getting the regulatory permissions from the government, the baring of balance sheets, and the blessing of stockholders.
Over dinner this week, a friend of mine recently brought to my attention that these same phases apply to dating and ultimately marriage. So let's explore that a little more...
ACQUISITION PHASE: The dating between companies when they explore possibilities is quite the same as the dating between humans. Someone expresses interest, the other responds in kind, and we're off to the races. We try to show our best sides, smiling often, disagreeing rarely--if at all. In order to seem as appealing as possible, we posture like peacocks in order to draw attention to our beauty. As this phase wears on, the real homework begins. Who is this person underneath the pomp and circumstance? Are we really compatible? Are the inevitable flaws that each of us have endearing or are they dealbreakers? (Because, snoring. Let's be real.)
MERGER PHASE: So we've decided to pull the trigger and merge our lives together in matrimony. The snoring is adorable, the bath towel on the floor is tolerable, and thankfully most toothpaste tubes have flip tops instead of loose caps these days--Colgate has finally gotten it right and prevented many an argument in households across America. You go down to the courthouse and secure your regulatory permissions from the county in order to merge. Stockholders (parents, friends) have offered up their blessings (they don't know about the bath towel) and are hopeful for a payout in the form of subsidiaries (grandbabies, grandpups, grand-somethings). The blessed event goes off without a hitch and the honeymoon is bliss. It's coffee + donuts in a sugary swirl of happiness. With a little luck, the business deal is fully complete and we're all sports + Cinderella forever.
BUYOUT PHASE: But sometimes the sugar high wears off and you've been awake next to this person all night, wondering why you thought the snoring was adorable. Maybe the balance sheet excluded the $50K in credit card debt. The addition of subsidiaries has torn apart the parent company. The corporate cultures don't blend. Whatever the reason, it just.isn't.working. So you talk and decide it's time to part...and now the buyout negotiation begins. Who gets the house, the dog, the credit card debt? How long will it take to re-establish your stake in the market?
Of course, I don't have my MBA and government school didn't cover this, so parts of this metaphor are likely very weak. My apologies to those who are versed in this! But there is some truth here, underneath my snarky language and jaded rhetoric. Still, I maintain optimism--I want to be ESPN and I'm looking for my Cinderella story.
With love,
Leah
As you know, there are a lot of tried-and-true metaphors about dating: the catch-and-release of fishing, the job interview, the tennis match--all true and valid in their own right. So now I offer up another one: mergers and acquisitions.
In the business world, mergers happen often and only the big marriages make the news: Time Warner + Comcast (fail), Caribou Coffee + Krispy Kreme donuts (yay!), ESPN + Disney (surprisingly decent). These marriages are done with a lot of forethought and work during the acquisition phase, including getting the regulatory permissions from the government, the baring of balance sheets, and the blessing of stockholders.
Over dinner this week, a friend of mine recently brought to my attention that these same phases apply to dating and ultimately marriage. So let's explore that a little more...
ACQUISITION PHASE: The dating between companies when they explore possibilities is quite the same as the dating between humans. Someone expresses interest, the other responds in kind, and we're off to the races. We try to show our best sides, smiling often, disagreeing rarely--if at all. In order to seem as appealing as possible, we posture like peacocks in order to draw attention to our beauty. As this phase wears on, the real homework begins. Who is this person underneath the pomp and circumstance? Are we really compatible? Are the inevitable flaws that each of us have endearing or are they dealbreakers? (Because, snoring. Let's be real.)
MERGER PHASE: So we've decided to pull the trigger and merge our lives together in matrimony. The snoring is adorable, the bath towel on the floor is tolerable, and thankfully most toothpaste tubes have flip tops instead of loose caps these days--Colgate has finally gotten it right and prevented many an argument in households across America. You go down to the courthouse and secure your regulatory permissions from the county in order to merge. Stockholders (parents, friends) have offered up their blessings (they don't know about the bath towel) and are hopeful for a payout in the form of subsidiaries (grandbabies, grandpups, grand-somethings). The blessed event goes off without a hitch and the honeymoon is bliss. It's coffee + donuts in a sugary swirl of happiness. With a little luck, the business deal is fully complete and we're all sports + Cinderella forever.
BUYOUT PHASE: But sometimes the sugar high wears off and you've been awake next to this person all night, wondering why you thought the snoring was adorable. Maybe the balance sheet excluded the $50K in credit card debt. The addition of subsidiaries has torn apart the parent company. The corporate cultures don't blend. Whatever the reason, it just.isn't.working. So you talk and decide it's time to part...and now the buyout negotiation begins. Who gets the house, the dog, the credit card debt? How long will it take to re-establish your stake in the market?
Of course, I don't have my MBA and government school didn't cover this, so parts of this metaphor are likely very weak. My apologies to those who are versed in this! But there is some truth here, underneath my snarky language and jaded rhetoric. Still, I maintain optimism--I want to be ESPN and I'm looking for my Cinderella story.
With love,
Leah
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Do You Believe in Magic?
Once upon a time, I went on a date. (I actually prefer to call these first meetings with Men From the Internet "meet-n-greets" because, to be honest, "date" is a heavy word in this application.)
Literally from the first moment, it was sparks and fireworks and chemical reactions. He was cute, funny, smart, sensitive, and even a tiny bit romantic--the kind of guy who seemed to wear a little bit of his heart on his sleeve.
We sat at a bar in St. Paul for hours, laughing and getting to know one another. We easily moved from topic to topic, from work and tattoos to politics and parenting. When he reached out and touched my hand from across the heavy oak table, electricity flowed between us. He shyly smiled and I let my guard down enough to allow my eyes sparkle back. When it was time to go, he slipped his arm around my waist and guided me out the door. I was floating.
He walked me to my car, which was parked on the now-quiet downtown street. It had rained all evening, and the pavement shone with the soft glow from the street light. We said our goodbyes, our eyes locked, each of us not ready to leave. He pulled me in for a kiss and suddenly it was like a Ryan Gosling movie. His hands were in my hair, my arms were wrapped tightly around his broad shoulders. When I finally opened my eyes, everything just seemed a little bit more magical.
Alas, there isn't a lot of actual magic in this world.
Fast forward a little bit...we had, you know, relations, and I instinctively knew something was off right away. He grew distant and when I asked him if he was okay, he said he was overwhelmed because I was so pretty. Instead of letting my inner alarm sound in caution (because really - who says that?!), I smiled and nestled down inside what seemed to be a compliment. The next day was even more quiet which was so unusual compared to how he had previously been--texting, sending silly photos, chatting about his day. By the following day, it was grossly apparent that things had gone pear-shaped. I finally brought it up since he wasn't forthcoming, and the bomb dropped--the list of reasons why things likely wouldn't work out (opposite sides of the Cities, kids, schedules). Read: I had a good time and take care.
The main takeaway from this painful experience could be this: don't believe in magic. Leave it to Harry Potter or Cinderella and keep your own feet firmly in this real world. Life doesn't take place on the set of a Ryan Gosling movie. The streets don't glow and sparks don't fly. To let your guard down is to go to battle without body armor.
But as much as I want to be this jaded - and believe me, I do! - I fight to quiet my inner skeptic. As much as this interaction seemed to rip into me so painfully at the time, in the long run it's nothing but a bee sting. So, okay, I made an error in judgment and got a little burned, but to let this incident color my view of dating or men or even the world is to let his carelessness infect me - and he doesn't get to have that power. I want to let the streets glow after a long rain and allow my eyes to sparkle. Because whether I choose cynicism or optimism, life is going to march on. And the days are happier with a little tiny bit of magic.
Literally from the first moment, it was sparks and fireworks and chemical reactions. He was cute, funny, smart, sensitive, and even a tiny bit romantic--the kind of guy who seemed to wear a little bit of his heart on his sleeve.
We sat at a bar in St. Paul for hours, laughing and getting to know one another. We easily moved from topic to topic, from work and tattoos to politics and parenting. When he reached out and touched my hand from across the heavy oak table, electricity flowed between us. He shyly smiled and I let my guard down enough to allow my eyes sparkle back. When it was time to go, he slipped his arm around my waist and guided me out the door. I was floating.
He walked me to my car, which was parked on the now-quiet downtown street. It had rained all evening, and the pavement shone with the soft glow from the street light. We said our goodbyes, our eyes locked, each of us not ready to leave. He pulled me in for a kiss and suddenly it was like a Ryan Gosling movie. His hands were in my hair, my arms were wrapped tightly around his broad shoulders. When I finally opened my eyes, everything just seemed a little bit more magical.
Alas, there isn't a lot of actual magic in this world.
Fast forward a little bit...we had, you know, relations, and I instinctively knew something was off right away. He grew distant and when I asked him if he was okay, he said he was overwhelmed because I was so pretty. Instead of letting my inner alarm sound in caution (because really - who says that?!), I smiled and nestled down inside what seemed to be a compliment. The next day was even more quiet which was so unusual compared to how he had previously been--texting, sending silly photos, chatting about his day. By the following day, it was grossly apparent that things had gone pear-shaped. I finally brought it up since he wasn't forthcoming, and the bomb dropped--the list of reasons why things likely wouldn't work out (opposite sides of the Cities, kids, schedules). Read: I had a good time and take care.
The main takeaway from this painful experience could be this: don't believe in magic. Leave it to Harry Potter or Cinderella and keep your own feet firmly in this real world. Life doesn't take place on the set of a Ryan Gosling movie. The streets don't glow and sparks don't fly. To let your guard down is to go to battle without body armor.
But as much as I want to be this jaded - and believe me, I do! - I fight to quiet my inner skeptic. As much as this interaction seemed to rip into me so painfully at the time, in the long run it's nothing but a bee sting. So, okay, I made an error in judgment and got a little burned, but to let this incident color my view of dating or men or even the world is to let his carelessness infect me - and he doesn't get to have that power. I want to let the streets glow after a long rain and allow my eyes to sparkle. Because whether I choose cynicism or optimism, life is going to march on. And the days are happier with a little tiny bit of magic.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
The Good Ones that Make Us Better
The day started out like any other: alarm, shower, coffee...let's go. I was looking forward to a little field trip from the office to run out to a client's home to pick up some paperwork. The morning was sunny and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue. Windows down, music up - that kind of day.
Puttering along on the interstate, an apartment building caught my eye and a memory jolted my brain like a lightning bolt. Years ago, I dated a guy who lived there and I suddenly remembered him as if he was standing in front of me. He was tall, broad-shouldered, muscled, tattooed - totally my type. I remembered the night I met him and his pick up line and our first date. I remembered how he was a decorated Iraq war veteran, physically stateside now but still battling PTSD in his mind. I pictured the times he made me ahi tuna, shrimp boil, or waffles...and remembered how he made me laugh and think. We didn't work out and now, years later, he's married. He's one of the good guys and I hope they're very happy.
The experience on the freeway that morning has had me thinking about all the people I've met throughout this adventure called dating. Sometimes in this blog, I fear that I write too much about the bad ones and don't spend enough time on the good ones...because hey - let's take a moment to realize that there are a lot of good ones out there, even if the dating thing doesn't work out. Maybe it's the sociologist in me that sees these encounters as more than a date - it's a chance to get to know another person, to gather their thoughts and opinions and viewpoints, and to treasure those things as gifts.
So I put my mind to work to think about some of the good ones and the moments we shared: the Sundays spent on a motorcycle on back Wisconsin roads with a man who had the most gentle heart; watching war movies with the dog trainer whose German shepherds were as sweet as kittens; the afternoon runs along the Mississippi with a man who was part farmer, part urban cowboy.
I treasure those that I've remained friends with, even as the relationship attempt failed. I wish I could name them here because they are such wonderful guys and the world should know, but I will honor their right to anonymity...and instead just express my gratitude. Thank you to the guy with the Audi who showed me the downtown lights and the light inside of me; thank you to the kind-hearted one who always "has my back" (to steal his phrase); thank you to the man with the easy smile and shining eyes who made such a positive impression on my son.
These men, and others not mentioned here, are part of a great story that all too often looks more dreary than it actually is. These moments in time make me smile because these guys shared themselves with me; they let me see behind the curtain and peek at their humanity. I'm grateful to them for that honesty and humanity.
This is part of my life story and it impacts where I've been, who I am, and what I'll become. Thinking about this, I'm reminded to keep an open heart no matter how long this dating journey lasts. The bad guys will undoubtedly leave scars, but the good guys can heal those scars and replenish the lost hope, even without being The One.
So to all: thank you for the gifts.
Puttering along on the interstate, an apartment building caught my eye and a memory jolted my brain like a lightning bolt. Years ago, I dated a guy who lived there and I suddenly remembered him as if he was standing in front of me. He was tall, broad-shouldered, muscled, tattooed - totally my type. I remembered the night I met him and his pick up line and our first date. I remembered how he was a decorated Iraq war veteran, physically stateside now but still battling PTSD in his mind. I pictured the times he made me ahi tuna, shrimp boil, or waffles...and remembered how he made me laugh and think. We didn't work out and now, years later, he's married. He's one of the good guys and I hope they're very happy.
The experience on the freeway that morning has had me thinking about all the people I've met throughout this adventure called dating. Sometimes in this blog, I fear that I write too much about the bad ones and don't spend enough time on the good ones...because hey - let's take a moment to realize that there are a lot of good ones out there, even if the dating thing doesn't work out. Maybe it's the sociologist in me that sees these encounters as more than a date - it's a chance to get to know another person, to gather their thoughts and opinions and viewpoints, and to treasure those things as gifts.
So I put my mind to work to think about some of the good ones and the moments we shared: the Sundays spent on a motorcycle on back Wisconsin roads with a man who had the most gentle heart; watching war movies with the dog trainer whose German shepherds were as sweet as kittens; the afternoon runs along the Mississippi with a man who was part farmer, part urban cowboy.
I treasure those that I've remained friends with, even as the relationship attempt failed. I wish I could name them here because they are such wonderful guys and the world should know, but I will honor their right to anonymity...and instead just express my gratitude. Thank you to the guy with the Audi who showed me the downtown lights and the light inside of me; thank you to the kind-hearted one who always "has my back" (to steal his phrase); thank you to the man with the easy smile and shining eyes who made such a positive impression on my son.
These men, and others not mentioned here, are part of a great story that all too often looks more dreary than it actually is. These moments in time make me smile because these guys shared themselves with me; they let me see behind the curtain and peek at their humanity. I'm grateful to them for that honesty and humanity.
This is part of my life story and it impacts where I've been, who I am, and what I'll become. Thinking about this, I'm reminded to keep an open heart no matter how long this dating journey lasts. The bad guys will undoubtedly leave scars, but the good guys can heal those scars and replenish the lost hope, even without being The One.
So to all: thank you for the gifts.
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Chasing Unicorns
I looked at my ideal: is he out there? Is my dream guy a mythical creature leaping through a rainbow-colored ether, never to be found by humans? It's been six years post-divorce, so I weighed the question carefully. Plenty of my friends have gotten married or even remarried in the time I've spent dating. But having been burned by divorce, I also think that doing my due diligence in dating is time well spent. There's a lot more at stake than when I was in my early 20s, not the least of which is because now I have my children and they deserve nothing short of the best. My oldest is 12 and his sister is 10; in these years, we've formed a pattern of functioning in this household. The three of us pile into my bed to watch movies, we talk politics at the dinner table, we have inside jokes. Adding a boyfriend is going to be complicated, and I need to make sure that I've chosen someone who is going to complement us.
The other thing is this: elsewhere in life, we're encouraged to develop a dream or a goal and then strive to attain it. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" is probably one of the most common questions in the world. We're prompted from a young age to decide what we want--that's a key word here. So I think we should be applying the same logic to finding a mate--what do I want, who do I want? Unfortunately, women are often told to be grateful for what we have. "He's good to you" or "He's got money...he'll take care of you" or "He's a provider." True - these are all wonderful traits, much to be desired, and a partner should definitely be those things. But he should also be a match in so many other ways: common dreams, a shared sense of life direction, similar parenting styles, a good conversationalist.....the list goes on.
Through these years of the trial-and-error game called dating, I've learned this: it's okay to decide on what you want and then pursue it. Chase that dream, just as you chased other dreams in life. It's no less important.
So what am I really looking for? In a non-election year, I'd say George Clooney, but this year he's supporting Hillary and I already caucused for Bernie...so that's a no-go....(hahaha!)
Truly, though, it's a challenging but fair question. Honestly, I'd probably have an easier time ticking off what historically hasn't work, rather than shaping an ideal of what I'm looking for. The world is filled with "relationship extremists"--the crazies that are armed with lies meant to blow up your life. On one end, there's the Sociopath: the guy who says anything to get laid. He'll say he's divorced or that he loves kittens--whatever it is that you need to hear. He'll read you like a book but he'll lack empathy. On the other end, there's the Klingons: those guys that wear their hearts on their sleeves and invade your space bubble. They're the ones saying the "L" word by the third date. Be wary of each, for both are perilous to your autonomy.
My unicorn lies somewhere in the middle between these landmines that dot the landscape. I don't know what he looks like, or where he is, but I'm optimistic enough to believe in him. My person--the yin to my yang, the peanut butter to my jelly, my emergency contact, my first phone call, my cuddle buddy and my in-house challenger-in-chief--is out there in the messiness called life. And that's why I date.
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Going Home
I just returned home from having traveled back home. Let that sink in for a second....and I'll explain:
While I might brand myself as a "Minnie" (-sotan or -apolitan...either works), I'm actually a Southern Missouri girl in my heart and soul...and DNA. My folks met at Tulsa University in Oklahoma and settled in my father's hometown of Joplin, MO after they got married. They bought a house, had a baby (my brother), bought a new house, and had another baby (me). We moved to Minnesota when I was not quite three years old and for a long time I didn't understand where I came from or who my relatives were. My parents' divorce complicated the relationships with my dad's side of the family; I don't remember seeing my nana more than one or two times before she was laid to rest in 1998. My dad had a sister, Elizabeth, who I also saw little of but, as my only aunt, I adored from afar. (My own daughter is named after my auntie.)
Growing up, I understood my aunt and her husband, my Uncle Ken, to be exotic, enchanting people for reasons I didn't quite grasp as a kid. In 1986, they moved to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, to take teaching positions at an international school for Westerners living in that country. They were musicians: my aunt was an exceptional violinist and my uncle played any and all brass instruments. They traveled the globe, they drank wine, they loved good food, they were cultured and they had experienced more life than anyone I knew. They returned to the States in 1998 and settled back home in Joplin--proof that no matter how far you go, you can always come home.
I saw my aunt and uncle irregularly in the intervening decades, but each visit was a joy. I have often wondered how much stronger our relationship might have been if we were not separated by 500 miles and three states.
Fast forward....sadly, a week ago the news came that my aunt had passed away following a long illness. And so I, too, went back home.
My aunt's funeral was beautiful: she was surrounded by dozens and dozens of yellow roses and other arrangements. A fellow violinist played a haunting and provocative piece called, "The Lark Ascending" by Ralph Vaughn Williams. The music will stick with me forever because it captured the essence of life--measures of happiness met with measures of sadness, punctuated with dissonant notes. But what really struck me most of all was my uncle seated in the row in front of me, his thin shoulders shaking as he quietly cried for his wife.
How does a love like this evolve? How can there be such mutual devotion, commitment, and adoration? My uncle did not leave my aunt's side the entire time her health was declining. When she became too ill to leave their bedroom, he brought everything to her. When the time came for hospice, he made arrangements. And when she passed from this earth, it was under the umbrella of his love and care.
He shared a story today that makes me cry as I type it here: not long ago, Elizabeth awoke from a nap where she dreamt that her parents were waiting for her in heaven. But she wept as she relayed to him that she suddenly understood how her death would mean that they would have to be apart. I have no doubt that he likely cried as well, and I can perfectly picture him holding her small hand, smoothing her soft gray curls, and reassuring her that they will find each other once again when the time comes.
To have loved someone as wholly as he loved Elizabeth is not a common thing, and us Palmers should know: all of us have been divorced, including Elizabeth--Uncle Ken was actually her second husband. But seemingly against all odds, this marriage not only survived, it thrived for 45 years. What was the secret?? In part, at least, I've come to understand this: they fully understood each other because they shared the same passion. Music was their lifeblood: creating it, teaching it, sharing it. They could build a life together because they both wanted the same thing. It's not enough just to have some stuff in common--as in, "well, we both like the Olive Garden." Sure, yes, that's nice...but greatness is not built on a sandy foundation. The commonalities have to be bigger, they have to be more central to your identity. You have to feel the things your partner feels because you've always felt them, just as he has always felt them. Your dreams are his dreams because you each had the same dream before you even met.
Elizabeth and Ken were able to build this relationship because the concrete foundation was made out of a shared passion. They each had a dream to share music with the world; doing so together made sense and was only natural. This was their secret, I think. I don't know if I'll ever be so blessed as to find a love like this...but it sure as hell is worth looking for.
While I might brand myself as a "Minnie" (-sotan or -apolitan...either works), I'm actually a Southern Missouri girl in my heart and soul...and DNA. My folks met at Tulsa University in Oklahoma and settled in my father's hometown of Joplin, MO after they got married. They bought a house, had a baby (my brother), bought a new house, and had another baby (me). We moved to Minnesota when I was not quite three years old and for a long time I didn't understand where I came from or who my relatives were. My parents' divorce complicated the relationships with my dad's side of the family; I don't remember seeing my nana more than one or two times before she was laid to rest in 1998. My dad had a sister, Elizabeth, who I also saw little of but, as my only aunt, I adored from afar. (My own daughter is named after my auntie.)
Growing up, I understood my aunt and her husband, my Uncle Ken, to be exotic, enchanting people for reasons I didn't quite grasp as a kid. In 1986, they moved to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, to take teaching positions at an international school for Westerners living in that country. They were musicians: my aunt was an exceptional violinist and my uncle played any and all brass instruments. They traveled the globe, they drank wine, they loved good food, they were cultured and they had experienced more life than anyone I knew. They returned to the States in 1998 and settled back home in Joplin--proof that no matter how far you go, you can always come home.
I saw my aunt and uncle irregularly in the intervening decades, but each visit was a joy. I have often wondered how much stronger our relationship might have been if we were not separated by 500 miles and three states.
Fast forward....sadly, a week ago the news came that my aunt had passed away following a long illness. And so I, too, went back home.
My aunt's funeral was beautiful: she was surrounded by dozens and dozens of yellow roses and other arrangements. A fellow violinist played a haunting and provocative piece called, "The Lark Ascending" by Ralph Vaughn Williams. The music will stick with me forever because it captured the essence of life--measures of happiness met with measures of sadness, punctuated with dissonant notes. But what really struck me most of all was my uncle seated in the row in front of me, his thin shoulders shaking as he quietly cried for his wife.
How does a love like this evolve? How can there be such mutual devotion, commitment, and adoration? My uncle did not leave my aunt's side the entire time her health was declining. When she became too ill to leave their bedroom, he brought everything to her. When the time came for hospice, he made arrangements. And when she passed from this earth, it was under the umbrella of his love and care.
He shared a story today that makes me cry as I type it here: not long ago, Elizabeth awoke from a nap where she dreamt that her parents were waiting for her in heaven. But she wept as she relayed to him that she suddenly understood how her death would mean that they would have to be apart. I have no doubt that he likely cried as well, and I can perfectly picture him holding her small hand, smoothing her soft gray curls, and reassuring her that they will find each other once again when the time comes.
To have loved someone as wholly as he loved Elizabeth is not a common thing, and us Palmers should know: all of us have been divorced, including Elizabeth--Uncle Ken was actually her second husband. But seemingly against all odds, this marriage not only survived, it thrived for 45 years. What was the secret?? In part, at least, I've come to understand this: they fully understood each other because they shared the same passion. Music was their lifeblood: creating it, teaching it, sharing it. They could build a life together because they both wanted the same thing. It's not enough just to have some stuff in common--as in, "well, we both like the Olive Garden." Sure, yes, that's nice...but greatness is not built on a sandy foundation. The commonalities have to be bigger, they have to be more central to your identity. You have to feel the things your partner feels because you've always felt them, just as he has always felt them. Your dreams are his dreams because you each had the same dream before you even met.
Elizabeth and Ken were able to build this relationship because the concrete foundation was made out of a shared passion. They each had a dream to share music with the world; doing so together made sense and was only natural. This was their secret, I think. I don't know if I'll ever be so blessed as to find a love like this...but it sure as hell is worth looking for.
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