Conversation with my father: 

C:  “So, did mom tell you I signed up for the Half Marathon in November?”

D:  “I heard that.  Mmmmm.  And WHY would you do something like that?”

C:  “Good question.  No idea.  Um.  Stanley told me to?”

D:  “Is Stanley going to carry you across the finish line?”  (just kidding, he didn’t say that, but he totally should have)

C:  “I think I just need a goal.  Once I completed the 10K, I kept training, but it was anti-climactic to not have a race at the end of it.”

D:  “But. . . a half marathon?”

C:  “The real reason:  I’m batshit crazy.”

First run was last Saturday.  I wanted to hide under my car when it was done. I tried to keep up with the 9 1/2 minute milers on my team.  I did, for the first two miles.  I will not talk about the last mile.  This week has been marginally better.  Today I ran at Deep Run with John, and he neglected to mention that while it was very shady (good!), it was like running up a mountain (bad!).  I looked like I showered when we finally finished - water was pouring out of me.  Unfortunately I did not smell as if I’d showered.  I even went to Starbucks (had a free coupon) and subjected everyone there to my funk.  That’s how little I cared after that run. 

I remember thinking I’d never be able to run three miles without feeling like I’d rather rip my eyeballs out with sand-coated fingertips.  I remember thinking that I could never complete a 10K.  I also remember the first 5k I ran, and how I felt like I could have run forever. 

(I did not feel that way after running the 10K)

I try looking only one week ahead on the training schedule.  I try not to compare myself to every woman on the team.  I try to think about Theresa, Prissie, Mark, Todd, Kevin, Gina, and a million others as Gods with a Capital G.  Maybe one day long ago they were like me, forcing my body to do something it really doesn’t want to do.  Instead of Fat Girl Running, I’m Phat Girl Runnin’.  There is no alternative.  And at the end of the run on Saturday, there will be mimosas. 

I’ve spent the last week trying to wrap my head around the idea of my kids as “baggage”.  Robey says that my kids are definitely designer bags - which is good, because no one likes an ugly suitcase.  Still, it’s been difficult making the words I heard mesh with the image I had in my head of this person.  Someone else’s baggage - a constant reminder that I have a history with another man - all up in his face.  Impossible to work beyond that, I get it.  I really do. 

But I think less of him for it.

My dad was able to “deal” with my mother’s baggage.  Perhaps it was because he allowed himself to get to know her before making a sweeping (and frankly, dumbass) decision about what he could or couldn’t handle.  (baggage handler - heh.  now i know the real meaning)

My brother “handled” baggage as well.  Turns out he actually LOVES his wife’s baggage.  He may not have had his own kids, but he loves them like they are.  He’s shared in the ups, downs, good, terribly bad, and mediocre that parenting brings.  It didn’t happen overnight.  But if someone like my brother (who was completely not kid-friendly or child-safe) can do it, well, there’s hope for mankind. 

All around me are split families who have expanded to include other people who love their children.  As my sister says, divorce opens the door for more people to love your kids.  It also opens the door - if you allow it - for people to tell you that you are not worth the sacrifice your kids demand.

I’ve heard: 

“Good thing you know now - better to know now than later.”

and:

“Anyone who feels that way about your kids is just a loser.”

These statements come from people who knows me, so of course they want to protect me knowing I’ve been hurt.  Secondly, anyone who knows my kids thinks they are the bomb (or at least they aren’t stupid enough to tell me otherwise) and can’t imagine that someone else doesn’t feel that way about them.  I understand that being my friend or a surrogate aunt or gay uncle isn’t the same as being a full-time step-parent.  I also understand how intensely tiring and buzz-killing children can be - especialy when they aren’t bound to you by biology, blood, DNA or family. 

The entire experience has made me gun shy about everyone.  I’ve had two people entirely misrepresent themselves to me. Whether the mispresentation was purposeful or not is truly not my problem.  If they can sleep well at night, more power to them.  The fact of the matter is, I’m left feeling more than confused, significantly angry, and partially sad. 

Even if I wanted to date right now - as in seriously date - I wouldn’t be able to.  I can go out and be social, but everything internal is locked up and it’s a very good thing.  I don’t feel “nice” about boys right now.  I feel the same about boys that boys probably feel about girls, especially girls in their nearly 40s:  they want something, they want it to be easy, and they don’t want to have to work.  The minute something challenges them, they stamp their feet, whine, or run for the hills.  Good luck finding the easy road. 

I remain confused because I have no desire for another man to take care of my kids. They have a dad.  I haven’t asked any man to take care of me.  I don’t need that.  I stare in the mirror, trying to figure out who I am and what my driving forces are these days.  I’m no longer confused about what I want and I’m crystal clear - sparkling, painfully clear - about what I do not. Is it that difficult to just wait and see?  Must you project an entire future before you have even experience a bout of the stomach flu with me and the kids?  Really, until you are barfed on by someone else’s children, you have no need to fear. 

Writing about dating has been really good for me.  I know I can be funny about it, but not today.  I am reminded of being 15, and knowing that all the guys you secretly crush on will have nothing to do with you (other than MAYBE tutor you in math) and all the guys you just want to tutor in math want to make you their wife.  It’s the beautiful rub of justice/injustice, and fairness/unfairness.  It’s the very rare balance, the one you find when you like someone enough - and they feel the same - but have enough doubts or reservations to pleasantly rub your psyche raw worrying about if you’ll end up together. 

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. 

It’s your last chance to take a crack(er) at winning a $100 gift card from Ritz.  Go check out my blog post about Crackerfuls and comment away!  Comments close at end of day July 31. 

I’ve been so slammed since vacation, I’ve been terrible about blogging or even pulling the pictures from the Outer Banks off my camera.  I did it tonight, at the expense of my real work - but hey, I needed a break. 

We journeyed to Kitty Hawk because Theresa (from Allergy Apparel fame) and Gina (famous in her own right for being the hottest pregnant woman on the planet) let me and the girls tag along.  Their husbands put up with us nicely as well, especially when the Great Spider Scare of 2010 forced Lily and Arden (okay, and me) upstairs.  The bottom “section” of the beach house was, um, well.  It was . . .damp.  Theresa and Todd and the burly boys ended up stay down there - in twin bunk beds - while I got to stay upstairs in a slightly warmer but much drier bed while the girls snoozed with Landis.  I can’t thank them enough, even though I kept trying to force them back upstairs.  I think Theresa secretly enjoyed sleeping in a twin bed with her hubby.  Then again, maybe not. 

I loved vacationing with Theresa and Gina’s families because they actually know how to relax.  We sat on the beach.  We packed lunches.  We cooked most nights.  When we weren’t cooking, we were eating pizza.  We flew kites.  We took turns watching the kids so that long bike rides could be completed (I think Mark easily surpassed 100 miles on his bike during the week there), runs could be done (Theresa “ran” with me one night - which meant I was able to keep her ass in sight for all of about 3 minutes).  We took naps.  Todd played surrogate father and uber cool uncle to my girls, playing with them in the waves, dragging them around on their boogie boards, and bandaging random wounds.  He also broke up a lot of fights.  Arden and Blue Sky are quite headstrong.  The two of them together negates any country needing a nuclear weapon - their mixture is potent and all-powerful. 

It was weird.  Since I hadn’t really relaxed, the Homestead prior got me in this sort of sloth-like trance that was hard to shake.  Even watching Theresa frantically work did little to motivate me, and usually one needs a crowbar and threats of death to separate me from my shitty old Dell notebook. 

What was weird, too, was being on my first “single mom” vacation.  Being on duty 24/7 was interesting, to say the least, but having the other families around and all the kids helped dull the major absence of male companionship/help.  There were actually a couple of victorious moments where I said, “YEAH MAN, I can TOTALLY DO THIS!!!”  in sort of a Matthew McConaughey/Jack Johnson surfer voice. 

I’m really glad I went.  Leaving during nap mat season was difficult, but WiFi in the beach house made it do-able, and by Friday of this week I might be sort of caught up.  If not, there’s always next week.