I was engaged to be married to the most fit person I’ve ever known. “Have you ever dated a marathoner?” she asked, teasing smile. I knew what she meant. She didn’t expect to be having the “best sex of my life” in my 50s. Her body was a rocket of pleasure, pain, and sweat that smelled of oregano.
She was not beautiful.
I have had trouble with the “beautiful people” all my life. Come to find, according to my recent escapades, I am one. What is it about youth that causes most men’s hearts and some women’s hearts to race? Fitness. Thinness. Intelligence. Potency of engagement. Bringing new experience and adventure into my timeline. Ready for the world?
Here’s a little example. Walk around a local high-end grocery store. Follow some folks down the aisles. Not creepy or anything, just notice what you see.
Here in the mothership on a rainy day, with a chill in the air, the althleisureware is trending towards Patagonia fleece and Vuori tracksuits. And us… the tethered and leathered. Older. Seeing a clean, well-lighted place. Here, the river of life flows freely. Affluence. Fertility. Strength. Smiles. And the beautiful pregnant 21-year-old, just showing. So proud. Nothing to worry about. 1. what to feed the mama so she has a healthy baby, 2. sex is okay as long as she’s into it, 3. masturbation on porn are okay for a few months, while mama heals, 4. sex without a goal, for her, lost momentum. 5. The marriage failed a year later. She glitched me right out of 70% of my parenting time of my two young children. 7 and 9.
“Let’s just tell them you went on a business trip. We need a break.”
“Wait. We or you? Why don’t you take a trip? Say whatever you like. If you’re so unhappy, you go away for a bit.”
Unhappy face. Our couples therapist was also glitching. There was no further conversation that was going to rescue our family unit, no sanctuary or god that would protect me from the coming onslaught of loneliness, depression, and lethargy. I was fucked and I knew it. I was never going to be fucked by her again. Even three months after our decree was settled and she got the money she needed, I said, “I’m about to open up online dating. But before I do, I wanted to say… I’d date you again. I don’t want anyone else.”
I was lying. I wanted my kids. She had left the safety of marriage when she didn’t bring up the lawyer in couples therapy before going to “get her options.” Once she saw the promised land of a Texas divorce, she knew her strategy. She wanted “the divorce package.” The kids. The house. The money. And every other weekend off. Sounds dreamy, right?
Only problem, she needed to show the judges of the family court that she had a job, that she could afford keeping the house, even after I paid the mortgage and the health insurance for the kids. She had a job within a week. She’d actually lost $10,000 in supplies and training, the year after I was laid off from Dell and the economics of 2010 damaged all of us. She was “looking for a job” just like me, only she didn’t want to get a job. She wanted me to get the big job again, so she could go back to part-time or not working at all.
I was cut free. Moved in with my sister, into the mother-in-law suite. I collapsed into despair. I could pull my world back together again, each Thursday (dad’s night) and the weekends that they stayed with me. My sisters kids are 3 years younger. They became best friends. My sister got divorced before us. She was married to a bully. My then-wife was suffering from her own mental issues. Her mom’s affliction and her father’s stoicism gave her a very numbed sensitivity. She doesn’t have time to talk about our son, she’s got contractors coming to put in tile in the new bathroom. She could talk about it in a few days or on the weekend.
It’s our son. It’s my priority in life. And she’s pushing back because she’s too busy.
Roll the videotape.
One of the last arguments we had, boosting me back out of her house, her bed, and her kisses, I fought back. “I’m a writer. It’s what I do. Where are your notes on the cluster fuck that happened around an Instagram post? Where’s your self-awareness?”
I felt bad immediately. I’m a writer? So, the fuck, what? What I was getting at was this: I am trying to be real and get to the truth of why I keep fighting with someone, when I hardly ever fight with anyone, unless pushed. Oh, so I was being pushed. Really? By what?
Uncertainty, fear, and doubt. Insurmountable trauma and shame. I’ll let that sleeping beauty go back to her curated life. No more arrows or stupid declarations need be transmitted between us. I’ll never forget her. She’s taken my expectations for skin soothing to a new high. Amazing.
If she called today, “Come over, it’s cold and raining,” I’d respond. “On my way, ETA from the car.” She’s not going to call. She shouldn’t call. She needs to take a few months off, at least, try and sort through some of her control issues. If a minor tiff about an Instagram post can set her off for hours at a time, imagine what a real asshole is going to do to her hypoallergenic school for children. I don’t need updates or projections on that motion out. She’s on her own: untethered, as it were. Well, she will be when her divorce is approved and signed.
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© 2026 john oakley mcelhenney, all rights reserved
dig into the deeper meaning with the Cloud Pilots
> back to index: proofs of life
Look >> There’s a new Facebook Group on *hyperfiction*
© 2026 john oakley mcelhenney, all rights reserved
