you may no listen to this chapter here: forced reconfiguration
It was an ultimatum that had a gentle deadline. She said she was not going to plan the wedding, she was too busy. If I wanted a big wedding, I could start contributing to the work. May the Fourth, was the day. Almost half a year away. In the new year, however, she said, “If I travel with you I can only go on half as many trips.” She was correct. At this moment I was down, down on my luck, and not prospecting for big ideas or big jobs. She said a lot of mean things. Practical things. Chilling things. “Do you think you’re mom is proud of her son and his college degree? Can’t even support himself or his kids?” Again, probably accurate, but not helpful. Hurtful. And she didn’t even have to be drunk.
Several months after I moved out of her house and in with my mom (the second time) she commented on a photo I’d shared on Instagram. I honestly thought I had blocked her on every network, every channel, every device, obviously, I missed Instagram.
She had pulled a screenshot off a large display of my home altar. And the offending object was a 5″ picture frame that was empty. I found it in a box as I was unpacking from the move. It had a photo of my two kids on the beach.
It was months after my departure from her lovely home. A home she purchased with the express purpose of housing my two teenage kids and me. An instant family. Except there was a problem. She didn’t really want a family or like kids. And my kids, white, affluent, entitled, irritated the shit out of her. She might’ve had money now, but she worked for every penny from an early age. She was outraged at these rich kids who don’t clean up after themselves, they are loud up in their rooms, and they stay up all hours doing god-knows-what up there. It was a mistake.
The entire thing was a mistake. A massive escape for me, yes, and a momentary feeling of love and being loved. But love was mixed with poison. Her greater love was wine. Bottles of wine from all over the world would arrive in the Virgin Wines box, once a month. 12 bottles a month. That’s not too much, right? A subscription to wine. Okay. What’s my issue?
I sort of stepped into it at this point, so I need to give you a little more context about the beginning of our relationship before I go any deeper.
I was in fact living with my mom at 50 years old. “I’m sure you’re going to write some great things,” she said. We’d connected again through Facebook. And her post about a lost boyfriend triggered a comment from me. Which led to some DMs. And that’s when she sprung her trap. “How about tennis sometime?” I picked up the phone and called.
Over the course of the next 30 days we conjoined, we moved my shit out of my mom’s house into a new rental I had acquired in the same neighborhood as my children. New job, new income, new ability to rent. And she was fantastic, energetic, multi-orgasmic, fun, witty repartee beyond any previous date. And we “launched.” Or, really, she launched me.
And for a good six months things were uneven, but good. Okay, not great. There was the drinking. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I had a talky therapist who was sharing an alternative to AA with me, called “harm reduction.” It sounded good.
There was this moment, as we’d been dating a just over a month and diving deep into the bedroom. We were doing our normal pre-night ritual, watching something on her TV when I noticed she was slurring. She was super happy and affectionate. I was petrified, like back to that kid in the lake house when my dad was going to kill my brother for leaving the Jeep 4-wheel hubs locked on the way back from Port Aransas. I jokingly wrestled her into bed, and cuddled for a few minutes before she passed out and I returned to the couch in the living room. “What the fuck,” I said over and over.
The next day I was lucky enough to have therapy with the happy gay fat guy. He had seen a marked improvement in my status over the last month and was not going to collude with my panic attack. “You can see how you would be triggered, right. Maybe the reality is not as grim.”
“Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I imagined,” I said to myself for the next year and a half.
That next night we had the talk I didn’t want to have. It was benedryl she said. She’d taken a bene-d and had a single glass of wine. She wasn’t drunk she was just on an antihistamine. The ghost in my gut from the previous night was too dark to let the fear and panic back in. I needed her to work out. I needed a relationship. I liked the sex and laughing. I needed a lot of that.
She was actually hilarious. Our banter went 100 miles an hour. At parties or happy hours, people couldn’t keep up with us. Nonsequiturs about advertising, marketing, and music. She was really into music. She liked having a musician boyfriend, just not that he wouldn’t be able to contribute to the frequent-flier miles or upgrades. Good for companionship and carrying the bags, “my sherpa,” she joked. She didn’t really want to be married to a musician, though. Not until after me. Her next prospect was a bass player in a country band. Perhaps just to show how healthy and badass she was, she was married within 18 months of splitting up with me. To a musician and photographer. Good luck on that one. But, here’s something I’ve learned.
Love is hard.
I will not take action or make disparaging remarks about someone who is doing their best, at love, or relationships, or music. So, without taking her inventory, I’ll let my 3rd engagement ride off into the New Mexico sunset with her husband unmolested further by me.
Good luck to all lovers.
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