Category: General

do you have romantic regrets?

A recent NY Times article cited a study about regrets, saying 44 percent of females had a romantic regret…

I suspect there are many of us who occasionally think about the one that got away, the friend to whom we never confessed our true feelings, the relationship we unintentionally sabotaged, simply because we didn’t know any better…

Most of us who have gone through a divorce or major break-up have probably thought more than one of these regretful thoughts:

  • Why didn’t I settle for the guy / girl before him / her?
  • Why didn’t I leave sooner?
  • Why didn’t I work harder?
  • Why didn’t I see his / her true nature before we got married?
  • Why doesn’t he / she want me anymore?
  • Why wasn’t I enough?

None of these are productive questions. As I’ve said before, even if these kinds of questions were answerable, the answer(s) would never be satisfactory. If there were easy answers, I’m hopeful that we’re all smart enough to find them unacceptable. What could possibly explain away the upheaval, decimated self-esteem, cock-eyed financial shenanigans and ruined dreams (especially of our children)?

Perhaps later in the process, we’re asking instead:

  • How could I have done that?
  • Why did I behave so poorly?
  • How did I let that slip in front of the children?
  • Why did I fight so hard for or hang onto that (home, piece of furniture, or other physical object) for so long?
…or any number of other possible regrets.

This morning I met a strong, incredible and divorced woman for coffee. She asked me what happened, and I told her, “we just disagreed.” Yeah, it’s probably a cop-out. After awhile, the pain and resentment fade, the drama no longer seems to create a compelling narrative, and it seems I’m mostly looking forward.

When I’m feeling nostalgic, I just dig through my iTunes for this classic Dave Mason song:

So let’s leave it alone, ’cause we can’t see eye to eye…

There ain’t no good guys; there ain’t no bad guys;

There’s only you and me and we just disagree.

I’d like to think I’ve mostly moved on. Every so often there’s a flash of anger. I can hear it in my tone of voice when I’m cleaning the basement and marveling to anyone who will listen about something my ex hung on to, or when I come across another of his ineffective home repairs. Mostly, though, I am grateful for the lessons, grateful for our children, and very pleased with the woman emerging from the experience.

Do I have regrets? Sure. But most are fading regrets of misbehaviors that I’d like to think taught me a little something. There’s no one who got away. In this Zen moment and every other, everything is as it should be.

what’s your wacky divorce story?

I’ve heard some truly bizarre stuff in talking with friends and colleagues about divorce. Seems once you put it out there, everyone’s willing to share a story.

Take, for instance, a local friend:  He’s not originally from these parts, and he was offered an opportunity to come and work here, in this lovely midwestern city, by a friend — his best friend. My friend bought a house, met a woman, got her pregnant, got married and is now divorced. My friend always did the bulk of the housework, brought in the bulk of income and did the lion’s share of parenting, as well. Since the split, he’s learned that his very best friend goes over to visit his ex, shovel the walk and babysit their child — without telling him!

Or another male friend:  Just over two years ago, his wife’s sister was going through a divorce. At the time, he remarked to his wife how stressful and sad that must be, and asked:  “I mean, if you were having feelings like that about me, we’d be talking about it, right?” Six months later, his wife’s brother was asked to move out / for a divorce. Six months after that, my friend was asked to move out and was on his way to a divorce. Six months after that, his ex-wife’s sister’s ex-husband and his ex-wife’s brother’s ex-wife are dating. Did you follow that? The in-law’s exes are dating. And then my friend’s ex-wife’s father made a feeble suicide attempt with a bottle of sleeping pills and a cry-for-help note. As I told my friend, “It’s not you. Clearly your ex and everyone in her family needs drama.”

When I was going through the worst of it, feeling emotionally unstable and questioning my sanity, stories like this kept me going. Like watching any of The Real Housewives franchises, it was incredibly grounding; I realized I wasn’t all that crazy.

So what’s the most bizarre divorce story you’ve heard? What crazy cues did you draw on to assure yourself of your sanity?

three conditions under which I might sleep with you

Recently, a dashing pauper volunteered to “fuck me stupid.”

It was a lovely offer, truly. But, as I’ve mentioned earlier, I have certain attitudes about casual sex just now, and I’m not interested in going there with this particular fellow at this juncture. So, in case you’re hopeful, here are three situations in which I might engage in a sexual relationship:

  1. I’ve ruled a man out, meaning that there is no possibility that I would ever want a relationship with him. Therefore, there is no danger that even a sexually-induced flood of oxytocin might cause me to become emotionally involved with the fool. And I’m likely kicking his ass out of my bed — or leaving his bed — at the earliest post-coital opportunity.
  2. I am in an exclusive, serious relationship that I believe to be headed toward commitment. Said man will have forgiven himself, forgiven his ex (if there is one), can believe in love, desires marriage and plans to commit for the rest of his life. I will sleep with him only if I believe we will enter into this act as though it were sacred, and with complete acceptance, love and a desire to open ourselves completely to the act of giving and receiving pleasure. And, at this point in the relationship, there should be no question that we want to wake up in each other’s arms.
  3. Number 1, above, is false. The conditions of number 2, above, might possibly be met at some time in the future and, in a moment of horniness, I change my mind.

In summary, there are no rules!

the ex-husband-orcism

Last weekend, I invited girlfriends over to help me perform an exorcism:  the exorcism of my ex husband’s belongings, photos, spirit and trappings of our married life from my boudoir and other areas of the house.

I had long been thinking about the idea of a cleansing or a celebration, and I never felt quite certain about what was appropriate or acceptable. My plan took on definition for two reasons:

  • A girlfriend gently told me that, while I clearly cherished my “mother” identity, it didn’t belong in my bedroom. Every other room in our home is family friendly; my room should be a personal sanctuary, a child-free zone. The family photos and stuffed animals would have to go.
  • With each passing week that I failed to tackle the project of cleaning and re-organizing the basement, I knew that I was experiencing some major resistance to dealing with it all. This was not going to be an easy job for me.

I was going to have to call in some reinforcements. And I would need them to be both relentless and brutally honest. After all, my closet (and outdated wardrobe) was part of my bedroom.

I invited a bunch of fun girls, knowing that only a handful could or would show up — this sort of thing is not for everyone. In one day, what we could accomplish would be limited, so I prioritized:

  • Rearrange and organize my bedroom and closet
  • Organize the children’s artwork (my sister, the art major, would be assigned ultimate judge of what I should keep, purging the rest)
  • Begin the impossible task of cleaning the basement

I set out a spread of beverages and snacks — brie, hummos and the like — and the girls arrived in early afternoon. We began by moving furniture and de-cluttering in my room. Down came the belly cast from my second pregnancy, out went the family photos, and in came the “welcome to my boudoir” energy. Any trinkets or baubles that I’d received as gifts from my ex went into the garbage. After the momentary feeling of guilt that this might be appreciated by someone else, I willingly, gladly let go.

With a team of supporters around me, it was easy to enjoy the feeling of liberation that letting go, releasing what no longer served me, could provide. Sure, there were a few moments of compromise, a few items that, for sentimental reasons, I was not ready to let go. But mostly, perhaps because I was being watched, it was easy to say no to that oh-so-tartish Roxy tee shirt, a circa 1988 Benetton and a Coogi sweater (yeah, embarrassing) that I’d purchased while vacationing in Sydney with a boyfriend in 1996. What was I thinking, holding onto these for so long? Even after the girls left, I purged books and jewelry with glee.

We never got as far as the basement, but I now feel unstuck, as though the task might be something I could accomplish, little by little, on my own. And I think the biggest surprise to me was how easy it actually was. I thought I might have some bigger moments of resistance or feeling really emotional, maybe even tears. But there were none. It was fun, even empowering!

When the children returned from their weekend with their father, they were energized and began cleaning their own room. We’re on nine large bags for charitable donations and counting.

Sage smudge yet to come.

reconciling with God

There’s been a shift in my life recently that I’ve been meaning to write about, and it seems appropriate to share on a Sunday:  I think I have finally reconciled with God.

I grew up in a small, tight-knit church community. The things I remember most about my church-going experiences were:

  • Eagerly volunteering (at age 3, my first day) an answer to the Sunday School question, “How do we grow big and strong?” My answer:  “spinach.” I knew this from the Popeye cartoon series, duh. (The correct answer was, of course, Jesus.)
  • Adults and teens around me judging others based on the clothes they were wearing, their make-up or hair, or with whom or where they were sitting.
  • Our patriarchal God, it was taught, was alternately loving and wrathful. (And, it goes without saying, bearded and white…it’s man who was made in his image, remember?)
  • The parties (alcohol and porn included) we held at our teen youth group leader’s house. And this same youth leader trying to take me to bed as soon as I’d graduated from his school. But don’t worry, it was a volunteer position — he wasn’t actually paid for getting a bunch of teens drunk, renting porn for the guys or trying to peel off my clothes.

There is no question that the Bible is filled with invaluable lessons and is the basis for much of Western thought, civilization and history. And that many other people have healthy church communities and experiences.

After high school, I left the country for Asia, the Orient, a world in which this whole virgin-giving-birth story simply didn’t make sense. (Eastern religions often incorporate elements of nature; thus anyone who could believe such a tall tale might be considered loony-bin worthy.) And it was commonly known among the foreign (white) population that many ethically-questionable Christian missionaries simply memorized a litany of thought-provoking questions in the local language and nodded politely during the answers they couldn’t understand.

In summary, many of my formative experiences were ones that turned me off to organized religion. I began exploring Eastern religions, such as Buddhism, Taoism and, later, New Age thought. For a long time now, I’ve believed that terms like the divine, collective conscious (or collective unconscious), loving intelligence, universe, universal consciousness, etc. are the same thing as God, but a redefined God — a loving incorporation of our most vile and beautiful energies and potentials all rolled into one, a God with no opposite.

I continue to see examples of faith or religion — Christianity, Islam and others — used to further the forces of evil, such as lobbying against the right for homosexuals to marry. I’ve even heard there’s some wacky group of believers who drive gas-guzzling SUVs and do their best to pollute the environment in the hope that it will speed the second coming, when they will all be raptured away to the kingdom of heaven. But I also see signs of hope. It seems that some congregations are broadening their view of God, integrating mysticism back into the scriptures, engendering hope and allowing for the possibility that miracles can happen in our contemporary lives. It’s nice to believe that not all the “good stuff” happened 2,000 years ago.

Still, for a long time, people bringing up God or religious beliefs made me feel uncomfortable — visibly and viscerally. My mind was prone to make judgments about people who practiced their faiths in certain ways. And even the name God brought up an inner resistance to this notion that the masculine, patriarchal and wrathful could be the creator of all things. The ultimate act of creation — giving birth — is, after all, a feat of the feminine.

Whether this shift in consciousness has been my own or part of a greater, universal shift, I think I can finally say that I’ve let go of the baggage. I respect people for practicing their religions, whether I agree with them or not, as long as they don’t cast judgments on others or use their beliefs as weapons to combat love, acceptance and forgiveness. In the end, religion, science and life experience provides great evidence that we are all more alike than not and that The Golden Rule is the ultimate moral code.

I still don’t go to church, but I’m inching toward beginning a tour of several diverse services for me and my children (after all, I kind of like the music). And now that I’ve redefined my understanding and embraced all the inherent contradictions, I can finally hear or say the word God without cringing. I’m just a little surprised that it took me so long to get here!

on co-habiting with the opposite sex

A girlfriend called a few days ago and, per usual, began a rant about the B.S. she’d put up with in relationship with her child’s father. She rehashed a litany of complaints about his slovenliness, assuming I would jump on the ex-bashing bandwagon. I didn’t.

Instead, I told her that I didn’t share her experience:  I LOVED sharing my home and my kitchen and my bed and the housework and all of it! Sure, the occasional coat of facial hair shavings on the bathroom sink was a mild irritant and I never liked the layout of the office, which was primarily his domain. But I loved co-creating our life together — from shopping together for what we each deemed necessary kitchen tools and negotiating menu plans — to our concern for one another when one of us wasn’t feeling well. I loved snuggling up against his warmth in bed. I loved the thought of our pant legs and shirt sleeves intertwined in the laundry.

It’s true that I carried most of the responsibility and had to make most of the decisions. The fact that I can clearly recall the time when my ex noticed that we were nearly out of t.p. and actually went to the store and purchased it speaks volumes. He was inflexible as it related to vacation destinations and ruled out countless menu options.

Living with someone can be a pain in the ass, and I am learning to enjoy the blessings of being the sole adult in my home. But I generally appreciated interdependence of partnership enough to overlook most of the little things. And I look forward to the day when I’m regularly waking up in the same bed as a man I love again!

the divorce playlist, part 4

phase four:  freedom / victory / celebration

So maybe you’re not ready to date yet, but you’re feeling better about yourself and the direction you’re headed. You’re happy more often than not, maybe even triumphant that you’ve come this far, and you’ve found the kind of songs that make you feel like dancing in the kitchen:

an update on my life as a cliche

I wrote earlier that I quit my job and that I was seeing some really positive results, and I’d like to elaborate on what’s been going on. Essentially, the issue was that I was at a very big company and, no matter how hard I worked or what fantastic programs I created or what results I achieved, my impact was never going to be visible. It was a really big ship, headed a certain direction, with a few people steering. I was merely one among of thousands of paddlers.

Each day since, I’ve tried to fit yoga or some form of exercise and meditation into my life. I truly want to stretch the boundaries of the abundance I’m willing to welcome into my life, so I am really working at creating and visualizing an amazing new opportunity. I’m having coffees and lunches regularly, re-activating my network and meeting entirely new people to talk about my strengths and passions, and what opportunities there may be in fields of interest.

I’ve applied for some jobs online, and here’s what’s strange about that:  I remember the chore of navigating the online applications (I hate you, Taleo!) only for those jobs I didn’t care about. I don’t even recall applying for the jobs I really wanted to learn more about. And, the beautiful news is that all the right companies have been calling me back. The companies and roles in which I’m truly interested, in which I can make an impact for the good of the world, and where I can be as much or more steersman than paddler are the ones for which I’m being interviewed. And it feels great to pace the kitchen in my pajamas, untethered by phone cord, business attire or office, and speak knowledgeably and candidly about why I left my last role and how I can contribute in a new one.

In no fewer than five phone or in-person conversations, I interviewed for two manager roles and one senior director role. I think because of my previous title and the way really big companies have to dumb them down to squeeze in all those layers, I didn’t really know where I might fit into smaller organizations, so I’ve been applying to a range of positions. Interestingly, the manager-level interviews were the greatest struggle. The positions are in small-enough organizations so that I would be the be-all, end-all servant of all things mar-comm. And I’m better at forward thinking, planning, challenging and innovating than I am at a heavy load of donkey work.

When I spoke with the executive recruiter for the senior director position, I was surprised at how confident and at home I felt in the level of discussion. The roles and responsibilities for the position matched my strengths and experience well. We were on the same wavelength. It felt great! In the midst of all this, I had some additional and very encouraging networking lunches and a new business meeting, too. Positive feedback was coming from every direction, and I was starting to feel like a power manifester!

So, by Friday, I was ready for a break. A girlfriend invited me to a spontaneous lunch, and I was delighted. I thought about canceling my early afternoon networking meeting in favor of doing some shopping. But I went anyway. Sure enough, while talking with my contact, he told me that all the director-level positions within the organization had been filled…and then he recommended that I apply for another opportunity that had just opened up, Vice President of Marketing. Woo-hoo! Once again, I am reminded that the universe has a delightful sense of humor.

So, to briefly recap the evolution of my search:

  • I had to leave the position I was in to spend the time and effort figuring out what my next step might be. I’m still not crystal clear and the opportunities for which I’ve interviewed have all been vastly different, but their commonalities are that I will feel I’m putting something more positive into the world, that I will be able to make a greater immediate contribution to the organization and have greater visibility.
  • Even though I am not safely, happily and comfortably within a new role, I feel great about where I’m at and that I’m being authentic to myself in the path I’m taking. Speaking my truth and having that met with positive cues or responses is contributing to my belief that I’m taking all the right steps.
  • I would not have had the confidence to apply for a vice president position while in my old role — and, in fact, the progression of interviewing for two manager positions and realizing the senior director role is a much better match is what’s given me the confidence to go for it!

So you see, I’ve made a certain amount of progress on my path. I’m going to keep working my plan, putting my authentic self out there, knowing that the right one of these wonderful opportunities will manifest at the right time. Meanwhile, I am genuinely grateful for the opportunity to go about this my way.

Up next:  an online dating update.

mourning among my adopted family

It’s been a rough couple of days, and I find I have a story to tell. Seems I usually do. Actually, this might be more like two stories.

When I was in college, I dated a professor’s son (actually, I dated more than one, but let’s leave the others for another time). His mother taught writing courses and was known to be tough and opinionated. So, of course I sought her out. Academically, she liked me.

My boyfriend / professor’s son lived at home, so there was that inevitable morning when I walked down through the living room and had to say, “Good morning, Doctor, I’ll see you later in class.” Since it was a small school, everyone in my social circle had heard the news by lunch time. This counts among the three most embarrassing moments of my life.

But the real story here is that, when the boyfriend went off to grad school, his mother, my professor, adopted me. I wasn’t her only adopted student but, because I was close to her son, I think she liked having me around as a way to feel closer to him. She fed me elaborate meals and played the piano and we talked about everything from art and politics to gender roles and sex. I met his two brothers, his nephews and niece, his grandparents… After college, I moved closer to his grandparents and would take his grandmother shopping, since she no longer drove.

The boyfriend and I had an off-again, on-again long-distance relationship filled with the usual yearning, expectations, longing and heartache. People around us sincerely believed we would one day marry. For a long time, I think we did, too. In the end, I lost the boyfriend but kept the family. My former boyfriend married. To this day, I call the boys my brothers.

We lost the doctor recently and, over the weekend, I celebrated her life with my “brothers” and “nephew.” A common theme at family occasions is the closeness I share with the eldest of these boys. Apparently this chafes the youngest, my ex, as noted by the middle son who remarked, “Yeah, I’ve heard all about it” not long after I walked into the house over the weekend.

I suppose there may be rules and boundaries that one ought to consider in relationship situations like this. But I’m not going to analyze them here and now. I simply want to share the reason you haven’t seen a post from me in a few days — I’ve needed some time to process a great loss for me personally, but even more so for these wonderful brothers from another mother. And I’ve needed to absorb and recognize that, however young and dumb and unable to articulate our feelings or negotiate our relationship at the time, I broke someone’s heart — without ever really realizing it.

I suspect there may be more to come on all this…after I’ve had a little time to put it into perspective.

eight years ago I met a man…

Eight years ago this week…

… at a conference in Chicago, I was standing at a cocktail table chatting with some female colleagues when a man approached our table.

I noticed as he walked toward us. He was tall, urbane and curls spilled off the top of his head. Before he had even stopped or uttered a greeting, a voice in my head said, “So that’s the man I would have met if I’d moved to Chicago.”

Let’s stop for a moment to ponder this:  I knew nothing about this man. He wasn’t my usual type. I didn’t know whether he lived in Chicago (after all, it was an international conference). While I’d contemplated moving there a few times, there was nothing to suggest I’d have met him if I had. So it seemed a bit brazen of my brain to pop off with such a bold proclamation. And, of course, the rational voice in my head was appalled — it jumped in with a correction:  “That’s the kind of man I might have met if I’d moved to Chicago.” It’s strange to have an internal dialogue like this — unusual enough that I still remember it.

I generally give my subconscious mind quite a bit of credit. I think it cues me in to some synchronicities and connections that I might otherwise miss. So it seemed to me that the very act of noticing this man might suggest some energetic or karmic connection. Perhaps there was a lesson or exchange to come of our having met — or the potential for something more. I prefer not to jump to conclusions about what it might mean, but it happens rarely enough so that I’ve learned to pay attention.

Anyway…he was friendly and engaging, and he worked for the conference organizer. He wore a ring. After a spell, we all decided to move on to our various evening plans. As I stepped from behind the skirted high top, my six-month pregnant belly emerged into view. The man’s jaw dropped, although I couldn’t have known why it was such a shock to him that I was pregnant. But he had clearly noticed me, too.

At a later moment in the conference, we crossed paths again. I was being introduced to someone and he suddenly appeared, remarking, “…and isn’t she the cutest pregnant woman you’ve ever seen?!” A woman never forgets a compliment like that.

The conference ended and we each went back to our happy lives — me to my husband, daughter and soon-to-be-born son; him to his wife.

Chi-guy would call my office every so many months, looking for a quote for an article he was writing, sometimes for a topic so completely irrelevant to my industry that I knew it was merely an excuse. His voice was an effeminate tenor with a hint of resonance; pleasant, but not manly.

And then I did a big, groundbreaking deal, the sort that gets national attention. So I called him, sent him the media materials, asked him to write about it and landed an invitation to speak at the annual conference. It was now 2005, two years after we’d first met.

When I arrived at the conference, my tall, urbane, curly-haired friend was nowhere to be found. I kept anticipating that I’d see him — or that he might make a point of seeking me out. Finally, one of his colleagues told me that he’d been hoping to introduce me before I went on stage, but he had the flu, and I was unlikely to see him at all. So it was a surprise when Chi-guy arrived ten minutes before my presentation. And I secretly thought that he must have been awfully motivated to see me, to show up when not even his colleagues expected him. I was flattered.

The next day, he introduced me to his wife and confided that they were expecting.

Chi-guy and I stayed loosely in touch over the next few years, emailing once or twice a year, if that. Eventually, we found each other on Facebook, which made it easier to stay connected, and I would ask him for restaurant recommendations when I traveled to Chicago; we exchanged a few pleasantries about parenting or books, but never managed to connect in person.

And that was the extent of our very loose mutual admiration…until nine months ago…