My Favorite Tree

Oh God you guys.  I’ve got it bad.  I mean, baaaaaaadddddd, for this man.  This sexy, funny, sweet, thoughtful, brilliant man.  I’m old enough to know that no one is perfect.  But, Lord, he’s pretty damn close.

We had the best first date ever.  He picked me up at my house.  I hadn’t been picked up at my house for a date since I was 19.  We went to the movies and when I tried to pay my own way, he just looked at me like I was crazy.  He put his arm around me in the theater and let me rest my head on his chest.  When I needed to sit up for a minute, he put his hand on me knee.  And he didn’t pull any of that inching it up higher on my thigh crap, either, even though I was wearing a dress.  Just a perfect gentleman.

We went out to eat after the movie.  I’d actually known this guy for quite a while, but really didn’t expect to be so comfortable talking to him.  We laughed so much.  When the check came, I offered to pay, and he looked at me like I was nuts again.  But he said he’d play me for it, and proceeded to beat me at paper, rock, scissors and buy my dinner, too.

We decided to go back to my house and hang out.  I put Pandora on the TV and we sat snuggled up on the couch, listening to 90s music, talking and laughing.  As the evening began to wear on, we’d lapse into silence.  He laid the recliner back, and I snuggled up to him, his arm around me, my head on his chest, and played with his beard.  My mind, which is usually running a mile a minute, was at peace.  I was at peace.  I wasn’t nervous, I didn’t feel awkward, I wasn’t worrying about anything, I wasn’t overthinking.  I was content living in that moment.  Eventually, he had to leave.  I walked him to the door and got the most wonderful good night kiss of my life.  I’d told him before we went out that I don’t put out on the first date.  And he was a gentleman about it.  Because I’m here to tell you, after that kiss, he could have totally had his way with me, and he knew it, too.   I remember every single perfect moment of that night.  We spent 12 hours together, from the time he picked me up until he finally left for home.  It was the best night of my life, romantically speaking.  (I mean, my daughter was born at night; nothing is going to top that night.)

That was in February.  We talked a lot after that.  He wasn’t really looking to jump anything too quickly.  I told him that that was fine, I hated dating, and he was so awesome I’d be content chilling.  I mean, I’m a serial monogamist.  I don’t do well just dating around and all this bullshit.  I like focusing on one guy.  Plus, I can only give so much time to a guy, anyways.  With Sarah being so young, I only have every other week for dates.  I’ll be damned if I’m gonna stick her with a sitter to spend time with some dude.  Perhaps if she were a teenager, it’d be a little different.  And he was also divorced with his own kids, so he understood that.  I knew our time together would be limited.  I knew it would mostly be texting and just trying to find time when we could.  And that was fine.  That was actually exactly what I wanted anyways.

He told me he’d been with some seriously crappy chicks.  His choices had been as bad as mine. He’d been hurt and cheated on and fucked with in all the worst possible ways.  I know how that goes, how hard it is to trust after that.  Not just the other person, but yourself, that you actually chose someone worthy for once.  I really thought if I showed him that I’m not crazy (well, not in a murder you in your sleep or cause a scene in public or just totally lose my shit kind of way), that he could trust me, that I was a good person, eventually he’d see it, too.  I already knew he was. 

So we texted.  A lot.  Talked on the phone some.  We only saw each other a couple more times. I tried to make plans when I could, but it never seemed to work out.  He was so busy on the weekends that he’d rarely reply to my messages.  But I never gave up on him; I thought, after all he’d been through, that’s what he needed:  to know I wasn’t going to disappear.  I’d get frustrated sometimes, say something about it to him.  We’d talk a little, and I’d end up feeling better. 

Early last week, I invited him out with me.  He never agreed to it; never said no, either.  I told him when I expected him to pick me up Saturday night.  I still smile typing that; he knows me and knows how I am.  I really thought he’d be there.  I waited 30 minutes after I asked him to be there before I left and went out on my own.  And because I make terrible life decisions when I’m sad, later that night I sent him a huge text and told him everything.  That I was crazy in love with him and that I’d tried so hard to be what I thought he needed and that it fucking killed me that he couldn’t even send a text saying, “I can’t go tonight”, and that he knew exactly how I felt even if I’d never told him before, but he’d never told me to back off or stop or anything.  He had mentioned before that he was scared of hurting me, and maybe he thought just not saying anything would save me some pain.  I don’t work that way, though.  I don’t take hints, I don’t play games, I need things said to me, plainly.  I am bluntly honest to a fucking fault and expect the same from others.   Maybe that was my first mistake.

Because here’s the thing:  I don’t even blame him.  I mean, a little.  But most of this is on me.  It’s a mistake I’ve made before.  I let my imagination run away with me.  I talked myself into believing that he felt more for me than he probably actually did.  I talked myself into believing if I just gave him time, he’d come around.  I believed that he loved me too, and was just scared of what that meant.  Even now, I don’t want anyone to think badly of him.  I’m not saying he handled the situation well, but I can own my part of it.  I’m not a bad person for this, and neither is he.  He’s still a sweetheart and he deserves happiness, same as me.

But right now, I’m sad.  And, goddamnit, I get to be.  I’ve talked to my sister and my best friend and everything they’ve told me is true and they’ve tried to help, and they have, a little.  But I get to be sad.  I want to feel this.  I want to own this pain, just like I own the strength that will eventually get me over it.  I don’t need to hear how I deserve better right now.  I know what I deserve, but I wanted him, and hearing what I deserve doesn’t stop me from feeling that.  I don’t want to hear how he fucked up, or how I fucked up, or how fucked up the whole thing has been.  I want to hurt right now.  I deserve that.  Feeling that is the only way I’ll ever get over it.  But I can’t be on Facebook.  There is such a thing as too much pain.  And every time I see his face, it kills me.  I don’t want to delete him; we’d been friends for a while, and I’m sure we always will be, in some way.  But I just can’t.  His sweet, beautiful face hurts my heart.  His funny posts make me cry.  Seeing my messages sitting on “Read” just makes me feel like a teenage girl, just waiting on the phone to ring.  After I got divorced, I never really expected to love someone so hard again.  And I certainly didn’t expect anything to hurt worse than that.  But this does.  So I’m going to take some time, boys and girls.  I don’t know how long.  Know that I love you all.  And I’ll be ok.  I’ve made it through heartbreak before, and always come out stronger.  I will this time, too.

No Boys Allowed

Great things are happening in the lives of some of the most special women I know.  Today, my daughter graduated Pre-K.  I didn’t know it was possible to be this proud of such a small lady.  And, my BFF Pamala passed her counseling certification test.  She has worked so hard for so long for this.  She is seriously one of the best people I know, and psychology and therapy are her passions. 

On top of that, I have recently become a member of a super-secret Facebook group full of supportive, intelligent, passionate, hysterical women.  I can’t tell you their names, or even the name of the group.  We’re like undercover bitch sisters.  I honestly can’t overstate how much these women have helped me in the last few weeks, given the ridiculous shit that sometimes comes about in my life. 

I’m so incredibly lucky to be surrounded by strong, smart, sassy, supportive women.  I wish I had been that fortunate in my youth.  Being a girl, growing into a woman, is so much more difficult without that kind of guidance and support.  Luckily, my baby girl has multiple women to help guide her through the process of becoming a fierce, independent, take-no-shit woman.  Which is why I’m setting up a photo shoot including all these women who have been, and hopefully will continue to be, influential in her life.  It will include, obviously she & I, but also my sister Becca, Pamala, my mother and her paternal grandmother, my sister in law, and – believe it or not – the ex-husband’s girlfriend. 

At first glance, none of us have anything in common.  Our ages range from 20-68.  Our educations include everything from high school to Master’s level.  We are single, divorced, married.  Some of us are mothers, or grandmothers, or have no children.  We have jobs, we are homemakers, we are retired.  But we are all women.  We all know, and intimately understand, the challenges, struggles, ridiculousness, and triumphs of being a woman.  And we all love Sarah.

It is incredibly important to me as a woman and mother to a girl, that I do everything possible to empower my daughter.  That includes letting her know that she is surrounded by women who love her, who will guide her, who will help her, in any way possible as she navigates her life.  A group of women, brought together by love and the bonds of sisterhood.  As lucky as Sarah is to have so many people who love her in her life, I’m even luckier:  I’m her mother.