The Road Taken: The Married Widow

Some people can’t stand being alone. It makes them feel lonely. It makes them want to climb the walls, as if they are unable to do anything, without someone to do it with them. I am not like that. Early on, growing up in a household with seven others, I learned to be on my own. Don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why, but that’s the way it was. Alone, often with nothing more than the thoughts in my head, to keep me going.

There would be no Rhett Butler to ask me to dance.

Living with G was no different.  He was in school, day and night, and while I worked during the day, I had the nights and weekends to myself.  Whatever I wanted to do, I  pretty much could. Which is why I took a creative writing course that ended up leading me to Rick.

And now it was time to move on. I was used to that. The moving on thing. It’s what life is all about, after all. A series of beginnings and endings. Sometimes good, sometimes a relief, and sometimes, plain gut-wrenching. But there you have it and so it goes. And, being used to it,  I was good at closing one door and opening another. Not for a moment, did I wonder what would I do with myself next. I wasn’t about feeling sorry for myself or walking around all misty eyed, claiming, woe is me.  Any regrets, I burrowed so deep inside, they dissipated, like the faint scent of morning after a rainfall.

If you had met me at that moment, you would never have known that the most amazing man, one I had fallen so hard for, had just walked out of my life. As gingerly as he entered. A regular Gene Kelly, who danced his way into my life and left me with nothing but bittersweet dust on my fingertips, from having touched his hands so many times. One moment I was under his spell, and the next, I blinked, and watched him turn into a fleck of matter on the horizon. Never to re-emerge. Just another exit in a series of endings, leaving me with no exit strategies of my own, but the knowledge that I had to move on and I had to keep this little, bad boy—this small part of my life—a captive of my desperado heart.  And I would do so, stoically, stiff upper chin and all that, so that no one would know what had transpired.

Ordinarily, I am bad at keeping secrets. I am too forthcoming for my own good. But this one I held on to tightly, until it became a distant memory, removed from my being. I pushed it so far back into the crevasses of my mind, it was as if it had happened to someone else, not me. As if I had never wrapped my fingers around Rick’s, nor never pressed my lips against his neck. As if we had never laid upon the grass by the fountain, willing ourselves to fly away and feel the universe brush past our outstretched arms.

I didn’t even tell my good friend, Pam, who I had met at work. Though, I did hint at it once. I mentioned it in passing, almost as an afterthought. really. I had so wanted to tell her, and confide everything. Mostly, I wanted to say his name aloud again, as if by doing so, it could bring him back, and make what we had, real once more. But the need to conceal it was far stronger and gripped me like a vice.

Yet, somehow, I think, Pam knew. She suspected, and may have detected a nuance, something different about me during those weeks when he was in my life.  Perhaps, a distracted, faraway look. The way she sized me up–a glance and raised eyebrow—told me she was aware that something had happened. But the details were lost on her and being the friend she was, she didn’t press. No questions, no admonitions.  A mutual understanding that, whatever it was, could not be shared.

So, moving ahead, I accepted my plight. I was married, yet I felt as though I was a widow. A graduate school widow. I was like Scarlett O’Hara, when she herself becomes a widow. Scarlett wants to dance, as the unmarried girls do, but she’s reminded that she must remember her place. Just like I had to remember mine. Of course, she had Rhett Butler, who found a way to get her onto the dance floor. There would be no Rhett’s–or Rick’s–in my life, anymore.

But there was nothing to stop me from spending time with Pam, who had recently moved into the condo next door. Which is why, the first step to moving on involved climbing into the passenger seat of Pam’s two-seater. Her little red sports convertible. In a flash, we took off, and headed south. Destination:  Anywhere but here.

Missed a chapter? Read past installments, by visiting the page, The Road Taken.

My Kind of Gal

Say what you want about her acting skills. Say what you want about her choice of films to star in, but Jennifer Aniston is ok by me. Here’s a woman who has it all—beauty, brains, style, fame, money and killer hair.  And the one thing she doesn’t have—a man—doesn’t seem to bother her a bit. Not one iota.  She’s Jennifer Aniston, after all!  The girl next door. Everybody’s BFF. And she’s my hero.

Single and loving it!

Why?  Because while everyone is feeling sorry for her, still licking the wounds from her broken marriage, she’s thriving and doing well, thank you very much. Must be her self-esteem, or all the love she receives from her friends and family. And also from her fans (me included).  I know she’s happy because she told this to People magazine and I believe everything I read in People.  This is a woman with backbone. A woman not desperately seeking her soul mate. Or Mr. Right or Mr. Big or Mr. Whatever, for that matter.

So why is everybody keen on making sure she finds that special someone? Probably for the same reason, us non-famous folk get pestered:  because our society is built on the foundation of marriage (except when it comes to gay marriage)  and can’t imagine that unattached people could possibly be satisfied being single.  It’s as if we’re all waiting for Noah’s Ark to pull in, and we have to be two by two, and at the ready, for when that time comes.

Heaven knows Jen puts herself out there everyday. Her life is a stage and we’re all looking on, wondering if she’s ever going to find The One. Some of us look because it gives us hope, and some of us, because it makes us sad to see her alone. And then there’s the happily married’s who look on because they are uneasy seeing single people content being, well, single.

So if Jennifer Aniston can’t find a partner with whom to board the ark and sail into the sunset, should the rest of us singletons even try?  The answer is, it depends. I’ve given this a lot of thought and consider myself an expert on the state of singledom, having spent years and years perfecting the single lifestyle.  Here’s how I see it: Singles can be divided into two basic categories—1) those that need to pair up and 2) those that are happy living on their own, perpetually single.

And I, like Jen, fall into the latter. Which means we are so busy enjoying life with friends and family, maintaining our busy social calendars, and loving the work we do. All this keeps us blissfully fulfilled.  Besides, we’re so exhausted from our lifestyle that we don’t have the time to search out that special someone (and, at our age, we’d have to do a lot of searching and digging), let alone, the desire to get mixed up in a relationship.

If you fall into the former category, meaning you see being single as a temporary stage and you’re determined to get out of it by finding yourself a partner, then you will! It can take a lot of work, time and energy, but if you’re resolved and willing to go the extra mile, then count on it! Of course, know that as you get older, the pool of available partners comes with baggage, much like your own. So you’ll have to sort it out and hope that all those suitcases match or, at least, complement each other.

As for me, I was a married lady once and trust me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Which is why Jennifer Anniston is my kind of gal. She’s a role model for me and for those of us who embrace our singleton lives.  So thanks, Jen, for making our post-divorce and single lifestyle acceptable. I’m glad you’re happy. I’m happy too.