"Divorce is the psychological equivalent of a triple coronary by-pass. After such a monumental assault on the heart, it takes years to amend all of the habits and attitudes that led up to it" ~Mary Kay Blakely
Back when I was married, I was the Designated Timekeeper of the House, something people who know me now would undoubtedly find hilarious. I had a complicated calendar system coordinating who had to be where and when and I was usually the one responsible for making sure it happened. As luck (or foolishness) would have it, I married a man who's sense of time could best be described as fluid. When X told you he'd be somewhere in a certain amount of time, you'd multiply that by 3 (ie, 15 minutes in X time = 45 minutes real time) and you were usually close. When there was an important event (say, a surprise party or wedding), we (his friends and I) would lie a bit about when X had to be there. Party at 6? Tell X he had to be there for 5:30. Inevitably, he'd still be late, but less so. As cell phones and pagers became more prevelant and affordable, X could be nudged along a bit more efficiently, though only if the devices were on.
(Someday, I'll share the amusing-in-retrospect story of how X nearly missed Nick's birth cos his cell and pager were turned off)
For several years, I found his time avoidance tolerable and even amusing. I was in love, and it was kind of cute the way he'd always end up rushing in and people'd joke about it. Possibly one of the greatest oversights I made about that particular habit was the fact that there was no way in hell I was going to find it remotely endearing in 30 years. Or even 10, for that matter.
It was the alarm clock that finally brought this to my attention .
For the entire time we were together, we owned a digital alarm clock equipped with huge red glowing numerals I'd swear were intended to be visible from space. Regardless of where we were living, the clock usually resided on a table or bookcase on X's side of the bed less 4 feet from his pillow. Certainly, within an arm's length. And every morning, for over 10 years, the first words out of X's mouth were "What time is it?" Let it be noted that not only did I sleep on the opposite side of the bed, I'm nearsighted in a coke bottle glasses kind of way and, without corrective eyewear, incapable of deciphering anything more than 8 inches from my nose. The view from my side of the bed was of an enormous and occasionally flickering red blur and it was inevitable that I would eventually find this question not just pointless but pretty fucking annoying.
"What time is it?" Over the years, this question became the equivalent of squeezing the toothpaste from the middle (nigh unto impossible in this day and age so I guess I'm dating myself) or constantly finding the toilet seat up in the middle of the night.
It really irritated me.
Why couldn't the man keep track of his own damn time? Was he in a magical dimension where time couldn't exist leaving him dependent on humanity to read the freaking clocks for him? If I was ever hit by a Mack truck, who'd tell him what time it was?
A question that never occurred to me at the time: Why was it that I, a rather quirky yet rational woman, had decided to focus every bit of marital frustration and hostility on one question? Lots of people want to know what time it is. It's a fairly common and innocuous question and asking for the time doesn't necessarily mean that one is a catastrophically disorganized alcoholic with a complete inability to fulfill commitments.
But eventually, that was my association with that question. Took about a decade to get me there (apparently, Pavlov's dogs were a bit quicker than me) and 5 years after the divorce was finalized, it can still be a hot button for me.
5 years later. What the hell is up with that, woman?
I actually starting thinking about this before Thanksgiving, about the time I impulsively decided to put my profile back up onto a singles site. We can ponder why it is that I opened a profile right before my busiest work season but I think my particular "I'm single and available yet too busy to date this time of year" avoidance technique is fairly transparent. For the record, I've been officially divorced since October 29, 2003 and I've been on exactly one date.
You did read that correctly. One date. I'm pretty sure that if I opened the celebratory package o' condoms a friend gave me after the final court hearing, I'd be greeted by a puff of powdered latex.
So, in the past five years I've doubled my salary, gotten a good handle on finances and investing, shepherded 4 great kids a little further along in their lives, become pretty adept at knitting & quilting (though I'm still the suckiest spinner ever), made some new friends, learned how to operate firearms, taken up skateboarding (with my son!), discovered I love mountain biking, learned how to actually appreciate myself...all sorts of good stuff. But, at the end of day, I'm still lugging around enough baggage that, periodically, it hauls me up short like an angry mutt chained to a doghouse and leaves me flat on my back, staring up at the sky and wondering "What the hell??" What the hell, indeed.
This isn't about to turn into a round of self-flagellating. I have shed some bad habits:
I no longer worry 24/7. I wasn't born a worrier, but when X took up drinking, I took up worrying with a vengeance. Where was he? Was he dead? Did he kill someone? If he was/did, had he paid his auto/life insurance this month? How much hidden debt did he have? Would we lose the house? Blah, blah, blah...I think it took me longer to quit worrying than it did for him to quit drinking.
I've stopped using food as a crutch, though it my case it was more like a wheelchair. A motorized wheelchair, possibly with a sidecar, though that'd make it more of a motorcycle, eh?
I've gotten past the point where some hapless man introduces himself to me and all I can think is "WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT?" (Ok, I'll admit I'm not terribly kind to drunken 24 year olds but they don't need the encouragement)
And, oh, have I ever learned to lighten up. Most of the time, anyway.
But, somewhere along the line, I developed this fierce protectiveness about my personal space and privacy that borders on neurotic. I've determined that if I find Mr Right, separate houses is the way to go. In and of itself, the idea, while odd, is mostly harmless but what it means to me is perhaps a bit off: Separate houses means not having to compromise about furniture, or decorations, or personal style, or who does the dishes after dinner, or who takes out the trash, or who takes care of the laundry, or any of a myriad of typical interactions between a couple that I've now taken to interpreting as "encroaching on my personal space." This, as some might say, is not "healthy". As a matter of fact, I'm re-reading this and thinking that it looks like I might have flunked the "sharing" and "playing well with others" parts of kindergarten except that I know I wasn't always quite like this. The seed for this particular nuttiness was planted sometime during my marriage and took root in response to X's various behaviors. After I moved out and got a little breathing room and a taste of privacy again, instead of backing down from this essentially defensive behavior, I made it a life style choice. Probably not the best decision, conscious or not, that I've ever made.
I have no idea how I'm going change this, but that's what on the plate for this year. My New Years Resolution is still officially "Eat Dessert First" and while I'm enjoying dessert, I'm going to make a conscious effort to unload the last of the habits, attitudes, and baggage left over from a crappy period of my life that's long since passed. I'm going to be 40 in June and I have no desire to drag the ghosts of my former life into the second half of my existence. Besides, 40's a little young to give up on men, sex, and the beloved warm spot that's a joy to snuggle into when he (whoever and wherever he is) gets out of bed in the morning.
