A week or so ago, someone I work with was telling me about a major life decision she’d made.  She had been a single mother for almost 2 decades and had a rough time going from staying home with her daughters to being able to find a job, learning new skills, crawling her way up, one step at a time.  She shared that she was often frightened of taking unnecessary risks because she felt her footing was always so unstable, and her time always so limited.  There were a number of major decisions she’d made, but she was telling me how she knew she’d made the right ones and when to run from others.

“I’m at peace when I make the right decision,” she said, “and when I am going in the wrong direction, I feel out of sorts, chaotic.”  She has a very strong faith and talks about God using the types of words I reserve for therapy – asking for help, digging for the truth, relying on faith to get you where you are going, working hard to do the right things. 

I’ve rarely felt pure peace with the decisions I’ve made in the past.  Even going back to work full-time, though very necessary and much appreciated, has not been 100% peaceful.  Just last night Lily turned on the waterworks again over how much she misses me in the afternoons and how she wishes I could go back to being her mom that was at the bus stop and made snacks and hosted play dates. 

(note:  I really think she misses the play dates more than anything having to do with me, but it’s sweet nonetheless)

I think this is fairly normal, feeling bittersweet about things you’ve done in the past.  People often ask if I regret my marriage and the answer is always a solid “hell, no.”  I still care about and respect Mike in many ways.  We made two amazing children, had many good years and developed ourselves and our careers together.  I’m bittersweet about the pain the dissolution caused me and my family, and any potential permanent damage it may have caused.  Sometimes I look back and question all the steps that led me to where I am today.  At the end, though, it doesn’t matter.  I’m here, I’m me, and most of the time I like both of those things. 

One of the things holding me back was the plain old vanilla variety of fear.  Divorced people are the true walking wounded, dragging around dead love and bags full of sadness into their future lives.  Everyone carries their burdens differently.  I have friends who have literally jumped from the marital bed into another marital bed, almost without blinking.  I have other friends who grew intense distrust in their minds, a different kind of poisonous mushroom, and avoid relationships altogether.  Still others seek out destructive patterns almost as if they want to be reminded of everything that went wrong in their marriage.  Many of them have come out of it now, having shaken off the dirt of their interim periods.  For me, I dragged fear out of my marriage.  I dated people that weren’t by any means good enough for me or worth 2 minutes of my time.  I had friends in my life that made me crazier than I already was.  I surrounded myself with liars and cheats and in some cases, thieves – both of my time and the little money I had. 

This just made the fear so much worse. If I couldn’t trust my judgment (because obviously, my judgment is no good:  the person I married is no longer my husband, so that’s Failure – 1, Judgment – 0).  Then I continued to make bad decisions, wrong decisions, and suspect decisions.  I started to do the opposite of what my brain told me to do because there was no way it could be right when so often it had been wrong. 

Even as recently as August, I was struggling with self-doubt and against those things I felt were good.  I couldn’t find a job, my relationships with others seemed either completely disconnected or shallow, and my relationship with Running Boy was complicated by a whole bunch of external factors.  I was tired and at times it seemed like it was easier just to cocoon myself, make sure I didn’t hurt anyone, anything, or myself. 

So this fall, I took it slowly.  I made careful decisions.  I thought through my job decision carefully.  I eased into working; normally I come in with both barrels blazing ready to change the world. This time I let myself adapt to corporate life after all these years, one single toe in the company water at a time.  I stopped worrying about my relationships and what was going to happen and started focusing on the moments in between the worry – the moments where my life actually happened. 

And I realized:  I was happy.  Content.  Satisfied with my life and the direction, with how my children have adapted; hell, I was even pleased with how Thora had finally stopped eating my house or destroying expensive things (this was because I changed my approach to her, and stopped leaving those things where she could reach them). 

I’ve made some seriously major decisions in the past month.  At some point I’ll be able to talk about them, but not right now.  I’m still sitting with them, cautiously enjoying them, poking them to make sure they aren’t suddenly going to turn into monsters with teeth and hair and start biting me.  They haven’t.  When I made the biggest decision, I woke up the next morning expecting to feel dread or despair.  Instead, I felt peace and comfort.  I had the usual niggling worries, but none of the big screaming doubts and insecurities.  It felt right, and not just at that moment. 

Days have passed and I still wake up every morning calm and peaceful.  It seems like 3 years of terror’s chaotic reign has decided to pack up and move to more pleasant quarters.  I feel like I’m visiting myself in the past, when I had my shit together and I was a normal person who wasn’t stressed to the gills and ripping myself to pieces internally every day.  It was good to meet my old self, but with a new-found sense of security and conviction.  Do I know I’m 100% right?  Nope, never will.  But I do know this:  I’ve never felt more certain about any decision I’ve made. 

When I’m anxious, crabby, or lonely, I organize and clean.

My house is going to be very clean by the end of the day.

It’s a mass crazy blog post, like a casserole of randomness!  Here goes.

It’s a hole.  In my nose. 

True to my mid-life crisis (thanks for that mom), I got my nose pierced on Sunday.  I’ve wanted to do it since high school.  I waited until I was slightly wrinkled and nose piercing was mainstream before doing it.  My friend Stanley went with me, and it was a good thing, because I passed out, had a seizure and was very ill after the experience.  He had to drive me home.  His hand has permanent impressions in it from me gripping him.  He also saved my life last night too, but that’s in a different paragraph. 

It was worth it.  I’m happy with it, it’s healing well, and no, I’m not getting any more piercings and I’m still tattoo-free.  It was simply something I’ve been wanting to do, so I did it.  My kids wanted to know why I didn’t get a “bigger, sparklier” diamond.  I told them that the little one already gave their grandmother a heart attack.  They seemed to understand. 

Kick Me Dating.

I’ve already got a book in the works about the year of separation and divorce. About 80% of it is written - I wrote it last year during NaNoWriMo.  The remaining 20% is being written right now, and it’s going to be about dating at nearly 40.  It’s been QUITE the experience.  I’ve dated an emotionally stunted boy who was old enough not to be a boy.  I dated a guy with more mental issues than myself, but unlike me, he wasn’t willing to address any of them.  I went out for coffee with different men.  One had hobbit toes and spoke exclusively to my breasts.  There was not a second date.  One guy thought I was wanting to meet for coffee during work hours and called me a loser for not having a “real” job (???) - turns out he misread my email and realized I was suggesting 8 pm, not 8 am.  There was no first date with him.  Another guy sent me a long-winded note through a dating site, explaining to me in elementary-school-appropriate wording that he wished me the best of luck as no one really wants to date a woman with kids, especially not an almost 40 YEAR OLD woman.  Then he asked me out.  Guess what I said?

Then, I dated a guy - as in - we had more than one date.  He was normal.  He was good looking.  He worked out. He was healthy.  He was over his past relationships.  He was not hung up or full of issues.  He was funny.  He was mature.  He thought Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a well-written show.  He liked kids, but had resigned himself to not having any of his own. 

He changed his mind.  I can’t fault him.  Having your own kids with someone you love is a pretty cool thing.  It was hard for him to tell me that he had changed his mind.  We were getting along, we were laughing, we were “fine”.  It’s one thing to decide you don’t want to date because you spot some warning signs or the person has an annoying, throat-clearing habit.  Or is afraid to drive downtown because someone might scratch their car.  Or because they talk exclusively to your tatas. 

A part of me felt really badly that having another child is just flat out something I’m never, ever doing again.  Two is enough and frankly, my body and my brain cannot tolerate the pregnancy experience ever again.  And for him, he can date younger.  He can find someone he is compatible with that is in their early 30s and still willing, able, and excited about having a baby. 

I learn every time I meet someone new.  After my first experience, I said I wasn’t going to date anyone younger than 37 (arbitrary, I know) and I wasn’t going to date anyone who was that age and had never been married (judgmental, I know).  Now I wonder whether I can ever really believe what people say.  I change my mind frequently about things - why shouldn’t they?  It is just unfortunate that he wasn’t a psycho jerk or an asshole.  He’s a genuinely good and decent person, just like I am.  It’s much easier ending a relationship with someone who calls you names or throws temper tantrums or is completely self-absorbed.

A note about dating and me.  There’s been some judgment, but most of it has been concern from family and friends that it is “too soon”.  Timelines are arbitrary as well.  I felt alone in my marriage for quite some time.  When I finally left the marriage, it was only physically.  That’s a hard thing to admit.  It is also the truth.  My goal was to simply date - just to get my feet wet, so to speak, learn how to talk to people I don’t know, date different types, be casual and have fun.  Part of me still wants to do this.  Part of me wants to curl up in a fetal position with my daughters and hide forever.  He told me how “strong” I was - how I was such a “good person” - how I “deserve better”.  Yes, yes, and yes, but the next person with a penis who says this to me is going to lose one, if not both testicles.  As my sister said, what choice do we have?  Strength is relative.  Of course I’m strong.  Duh.  Aren’t we all? 

True to my commitment to 2010 being the year of honesty, 2010 is also the year of gray.  No black or white ultimatums for me.  Somewhere in the middle of the wacky world of dating in middle age is where I’ll be. 

Stanley and Robey came by with champagne and laptops.  Robey gave me a stern talking-to and Stanley distracted me with chatter about the half-marathon training team we are starting Saturday.  Robey cleaned up the spilled champagne (I’m a clutz) and Stanley told funny and sad stories about his life growing up.  We are both Latinos and I understand the culture even if I suck at speaking the language.  We gossiped and I cried some more.  I fell asleep before they left.  It is those moments when your friends surround you, even when they are tired of seeing you cry, that you realize what strength is all about. 

The definition of “family”. 

I’m finally starting to do some volunteer project management/board work for GayRVA.com.  I have mad respect for the people who run it, and the person who created it (waves at Kevin Clay - hi Kevin!).  It fills a need in Richmond and it is full of passionate people.  In answer to my mother’s question, posed silently and hanging over my head, no I am still not gay and no not everyone in the organization is.  If I could have jumped the lesbian fence, it would have happened long ago.  Anyway. 

A post on the website yesterday generated a lot of interest. Reading it infuriated me.  As a private business, they can do what they want, but to say it’s because they follow Virginia’s definitions of “family” is a big cop-out.  Especially when you see how many other gyms offer family memberships to all kinds of families. 

Where do you stand on the issue?  Perish the thought that we might actually allow gay marriage in Virginia . . . but denying family GYM memberships?  As one person said, American Family has no problem taking their money as individuals.  As I said, they have no problem with their gay employees (theoretically - maybe they use don’t ask, don’t tell there?), or gay people working out and spending their money there.  But to offer them a family membership discount crosses some invisible line.  I truly don’t get it.  As a marketing weenie, the negative PR alone would be enough to make a company revisit their “policies”. 

That is all. 

BlogHer is doing a fun contest and you all know I love to humiliate myself so . . . go there and read about it, then . . .

Replicate it here!

Tell me about your heinous prom dress.  Give the year (or approximate if you don’t want to out your age - for example, my senior prom picture was taken “in the late 1980’s”).  Post a picture on the web (use any photosharing site like Photobucket or Flickr)  and link to it in the comments so we can all giggle together.  The bigger, the puffier, the sluttier - the better. 

I’m not giving out any prizes, but I guarantee it will make us all laugh, and laugher is truly the best medicine for all that ails you.  Except bad fashion.  Even laughter won’t cure that. 

Here we go.  I’m first.  Deep breath. 

And yes, that’s a giant black bow on the back of my head, to match the giant white bow you can’t see (thank you fleeting mercy!) hanging off my shoulders down to my butt.  At least it wasn’t a butt bow. 

If anyone needed proof of my immaturity, this should take care of it.

I was out to diner at a local Thai place this weekend, and happened to notice this on the menu:

God, I’m 14. 

I laughed so hard my stomach was hurting and I couldn’t breathe.  I finally got myself in check when the server came by and asked us if we’d like an appetizer.

A9, please!  It started all over again.