Festivus for the ex of us

Happy Festivus, everyone! Today is the day Seinfeld followers honor with traditions including the Festivus pole, Feats of Strength and the Airing of Grievances.

What a great opportunity to send a back-handed holiday greeting to my ex, right?!

It would be easy to be bitter and place blame when you come out of a relationship like mine. In fact, I’ve spent much too much energy on these very behaviors. And I know damned well how unproductive that is!

Most of the time, I try to be conscious about the energy I’m putting out in the world, my language and my general outlook on life. I believe what we put out affects what we get back. (There are some excellent books on this topic by Michael Losier and John Assaraf, among others.) So I try to stay positive, express my gratitude and always view my cup as overflowing.

This can be difficult when, throughout most of my relationship, I was the primary or only breadwinner. I earn a healthy living. Nothing spectacular, but I’m able pay the mortgage, buy groceries and take my family on an occasional vacation. The designer clothes and handbags of my days as a single are no more, and my car has celebrated its 15th birthday. Still, I recognize that I am blessed. This is kind of a big thing for me…

You see, there have been times in my life when my outlook was not so bright, when I was incapable of feeling genuine happiness for a friend who met a great new guy, got engaged, had a baby or got a fabulous new job. I was jealous of those I perceived as having more or better. These were things that I wanted! Why weren’t they happening to me? Probably because I was focusing on the lack.

Going through a divorce, turning forty…I’ve felt a lot of lack these past many months, along with a powerful urge to place blame. It was easy to believe that I drove an old car and lived in a house with some urgent repairs needed and skimped on my wardrobe because my ex wasn’t contributing enough financially. I thought that if he loved me enough, he would work harder to help provide the things that were important to me and our family. But neither this belief nor my resentment has produced positive results.

For my birthday, a friend took me to a Michael Franti & Spearhead concert. If you’ve never been to one of these shows, I recommend it: it’s as much a spiritual experience as it is an opportunity to see a pretty cool live show. The band and the fans are happy, smiling and joyful. Everyone is dancing and waving their arms. I imagine it’s something like a revival.

There I was at the show, jumping up and down, smiling so hard that my face hurt, as Michael sung these lyrics: “Wise men count their blessings; fools count their problems…” I had an ah-ha moment, quickly recognizing that I was being a fool, counting my problems.

So now I’m focused on counting my blessings; I’m monitoring my thoughts, my words and the people with whom I choose to surround myself; I’m working to be conscious and deliberate about the energy I allow in my life. I’m noticing when good things happen, even small things, and I’m writing them down in a gratitude journal.

And I’m not indulging the ugly little urge to be petty. Today it felt good to send my ex a Festivus greeting with a positive wish for the future. I left out the long list of grievances altogether.

And, in case you were wondering, the very next line in that Michael Franti song is “…but you’re both of them to me.” How apropos!

making plans

If you are following this, you may understand that much of what I’m writing happened many months ago. I’m jumping around a bit. It seems right to disclose now that my mind is adept at forecasting far ahead and logistics. Perhaps this makes me calculating. You decide.

To recap my timeline:

It was autumn (just over two years ago) when I saw my OB and had the major realization that it had literally been years since my spouse and I were friends.
I stopped wearing my ring that winter, two years ago.
About 21 months ago, in the spring, I decided finally that our broken marriage was irreparable. And I met Max.

During this time, I was making mental preparations, beginning to envision my life without this relationship, without the anchor…unfortunately, none of the ways I could describe what our relationship had become were positive. And if it sounds as though I was doing this work alone, I was. My husband and I had long since ceased to have adult conversations about difficult topics. He was unable to engage in calm and thoughtful discussions that required maturity. He withdrew, avoided conflict, or became angry.

So, given that I was going down this path alone, I created milestones, or hurdles:

I would have to get through the summer, during which I had a demanding work load including a great deal of travel.
My children were in different schools and, pending the outcome of an arcane lottery process, they might finally be in the same school, on the same schedule, in the autumn.
And THEN I could ask my husband to leave.

Why not just cut it off quickly, move on, put an immediate end to the agony? Why all this planning and thinking ahead?

My spouse performed more of the physical, functional chores of parenting than I did: preparing meals, making lunches, driving the children. (I provided the nurturing, comfort, homework assistance; I read to them and tucked them into their beds each night.) My work was (and is) demanding. I needed to reach a point where I could envision managing the logistics of parenting on my own, while still doing my day job. I knew I couldn’t expect much partnership or cooperation in creating a schedule or shared responsibilities. And there was still the risk that he would fight for primary physical custody.

If I acted slowly and deliberately, that was by design. There was a lot to think through, create and plan for. Slowly was the only way I knew I could manage.

on failure

I’ve had some interesting reactions from friends and followers as it relates to the title of this blog, failed at forty. Most — those who know me well — issue forth a quick guffaw and exclaim “awesome!” or “hilarious!” or some such. They know my quirky, cheeky sense of humor and ability to poke fun at myself.

Others sincerely tell me I shouldn’t think of or call myself a failure. It’s as though they believe failure is a bad thing.

For a time in my life, I had frequent occasion to downhill ski. I recall letting some of my friends know that I felt good, was getting in my groove, hadn’t wiped out in a long time. And then one of them piped up: “If you haven’t wiped out, you’re not pushing yourself hard enough.”

Let’s pause for a moment to look at the silver lining inherent in failure:

To fail means we’ve taken a risk, acted boldly, pushed forward out of our safety zone.
We’ve gained some clarity about what doesn’t work, and can now adjust course to create a more positive outcome.
We’re afforded a new beginning, an opportunity to confess that we didn’t really know it all anyway, made mistakes and are ready to move on.
We’re older, wiser and can choose to endeavor forth with much already gained.

As for me, I can point to some rather spectacular results of the past decade of my life:

I have two amazing, beautiful, loving children.
I have a home in a lovely neighborhood.
I’ve increased my income by more than 60% over this time.
I’ve met amazing new friends and colleagues, as well as continuing to nurture old friendships.
I’ve had some tremendous, remarkable, memorable experiences.
I’ve healed, matured and grown in more ways that I can recount.

Do I really think of myself as a failure? No. But I’ve had some pretty spectacular moments. You could say failure and I are on a first-name basis. So let’s raise a glass to failure. Failure, you haven’t beat me — I’ll always persevere. And I’m grateful for the lessons!

writing about divorce

I’ve been planning this blog for some time and, ultimately, determined to launch in the autumn of 2010. I bought myself a new laptop for my birthday, began the research and, just as I was setting up my site, Huffington Post Divorce launched — an entire section of the website devoted to the topic of failed marriages, edited by none other than Nora Ephron.

Almost immediately, there was a lot of content: some interesting and insightful, some pedestrian and amateur, some expert relationship advice, some personal experience, some research, some celebrity gossip. In any case, seems everyone is getting divorced — or at least writing about it. I believe it will be a wonderful resource for many, and I’ve found more than a few articles that have resonated with me.

I wonder if it will make everything I’m writing about moot, redundant or done before. Yet I plan to continue writing about my experience anyway. While the fact of my failed marriage is central to why I’m writing, I don’t think it’s ultimately what this blog is about.

failed at forty

I suppose it’s time I addressed the title of my blog. The truth is, it wasn’t my first choice. I had a lot of ideas…until I Googled those working titles and some explicitly naughty things came up (…seems the XXX folks can find a way to associate nearly any topic with their content). I went through an entire list, hopes dashed. I awoke the next morning with “Failed at Forty” in my head, Googled it, and then began right away. I’m calling it inspired.

A few months ago, I turned forty. At the time, I faced this milestone with more than a modicum of dread. These “big” birthdays often inspire a deeper level of self-reflection than the one-through-fours or six-through-nines, and all I could think about was how far from what I wanted my life had become.

I think that I expected, at forty, to be happily married. If pressed to elaborate, I might have come up with something like this: My husband would be handsome and successful, a lawyer or architect or something; he’d love spending time with me and our children; he would surprise me with gifts of Marc Jacobs handbags, David Yurman jewelry, books and other things I love. I would be happy and successful in my career. My husband and I would take turns shuttling our children from school to piano lessons to soccer and skiing. We would have a spacious home, support the arts, entertain often and take Caribbean and ski vacations. I was sure I’d be celebrating my fortieth with a spectacular trip to the Amalfi Coast, Paris or Thailand with my loving husband.

In fact, I spent my birthday at home in middle America, paying off my ex’s debt and setting a court date. I had contemplated a trip somewhere by myself, perhaps to visit a friend, but some unhappy financial surprises would have made such an extravagance imprudent. Sure I went out with girlfriends, but my heart was not engaged in any sort of celebration. I felt like a failure. So much of what I wanted seemed further from my grasp than ever. To be honest, I was pretty depressed about my situation.

The brilliant thing about failure is that, with time, it brings about great clarity. It is because of the experiences I’ve had — my failed relationship, my attainment of a mediocre position in my career — that I now know more clearly than ever what is truly and deeply important to me. I have a fairly well-developed grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses, and have discovered what makes me feel whole, fulfilled and alive. I am grateful for these lessons learned.

Thus, it is because I am failed at forty that I am more poised than ever to set about creating the life I truly want. And that, my friends, feels like a pretty darned blessed place to be!

my best friend

Two and a half years ago…

One of the turning points in my decision to admit the failure of my marriage was this:

I was in my OB-GYN’s office for an annual. She asked generally about my health and specifically about my stress levels, which I admitted were pretty high. I told her my spouse and I had been having marital problems and were discussing a split.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “When did he stop being your best friend?”

This simple question had blown me away. I was stupefied. Dumbfounded. I had long since forgotten that we were supposed to have been on the same team, working toward the same goals, cheering each other on. I had forgotten what it felt like to have someone there supporting me.

And then it dawned on me: he had been my best friend for the first year. Something changed after that, and he turned me into an adversary. Everything I said seemed to be filtered through a different lens, interpreted in a way so negative that anyone who knew me would surely know it couldn’t possibly have been meant that way. Was it because I had become comfortable and less careful with my words? Was it the stress of starting a family? Or moving to a larger home?

Whatever the case, I recall it being distressing at the time. I recall trying to remedy this disturbing change. And I recall hoping it was a phase that would pass. Instead, I must have just grown accustomed to it.

I wonder: is it even realistic in today’s world to believe that we can find a mate who, years later, will still be a best friend and confidante? Is it a pipe dream to think that maybe I, too, can be that elderly woman holding hands with an elderly man as they stroll companionably through the park, their love worn and comfortable, having together weathered years of adversity, triumph, joy and loss?

fairy tales

About 21 months ago…

My fantasies about Max had taken on a life of their own. Despite knowing he was engaged, I allowed my imagination to reinvent him as a single, available man — and one who was interested in me. I simply closed my eyes and let my mind play scenes of our time together talking, flirting, realizing that there was something special between us that was worth exploring.

All of this escapism only goes to show how nimble the human mind can be.

After all, the facts were:

Max and I lived several hundred miles apart,
he had not expressed any interest in me,
my ex hadn’t moved out of our home — in fact, I hadn’t even asked him to yet — and he was unlikely to bless any plan that involved his children moving across the country, and
let’s not forget that in reality, Max was engaged and would be married any day now.

These dreams were all me, indulging an imagination that wanted to run wild. Perhaps a complete escape from reality was exactly what I needed.

Finally, in my foolish fairy tales, Max asked me to visit him. And then I was stuck: I found myself, even in my fantasies, having to confess that I was not truly available. Even if my marriage had crumbled and was long since over, I had not yet communicated clearly to my ex that I was truly finished trying to overcome our differences nor asked him to move on.

Yet somehow, creating my very own fairy tales was giving me the strength to take those next steps.

why?

As it relates to divorce, “why” is not a question worth asking. There will simply never be a satisfactory answer.

There are those who ask what they contributed to the failure of their relationship, which is truly something we should all explore. But if you’re asking why your partner wanted to leave, you’re never going to truly, fully understand in a meaningful, satisfying way. As far as you’re concerned, there couldn’t possibly be a reason that’s good enough.

the inquiry

About 21 months ago…

I was back in my cubicle at the offul, sticking out late winter in middle America, thinking about Max. I had noticed he was not wearing a ring. How was this possible? Was he a playboy unable to commit? Recently divorced? How old was he, anyway? And why was I suddenly obsessed?

To comprehend the relative importance of this crush, one must understand that it had been months since I had felt wanted or loved, since someone of the opposite sex had shown genuine interest in me, since I’d been touched. Frankly, Max had done none of these things…yet the hope that had sprung up so suddenly inside me reminded me of how badly I needed these things.

So I sent a note to another work friend in Max’s region. I told her how nice it had been to see her, how much I enjoyed meeting her family, asked what the story was with that cute guy Max, and promised to make time for cocktails during my next trip. In journalistic parlance, I buried the lead. And then I waited.

A few days later, I got a reply: The usual pleasantries — and the news that Max was to be married in a few weeks.

You’d think someone with whom I’d spent only a few hours would be easy to forget, but I found myself nursing a powerful work crush — and pondering what type of woman Max was about to marry. I imagined she was twenty-nine, a bottle blond, and had a beach body complete with fake breasts. Surely he deserved someone with more depth and experience, someone real and, well, more like me!

that feeling again

21 months ago…

In the midst of what must have been the most miserable few months of my life — I had just come to the agonizing realization that I had to end my marriage, but hadn’t yet communicated it, things were not going well at work, and I was certainly suffering from situational depression or Seasonal Affective Disorder — I went on a work trip to a warmer clime.

My project partner lived in the city I traveled to. I had spoken to him on the phone and emailed with him. I enjoyed his cooperation, responsiveness and playfulness. But I thought nothing more of this fellow, who I shall refer to as Max. (I simply wasn’t emotionally available to think or feel more of this fellow — or anyone else, for that matter.)

While working with Max, I slowly began to notice the following qualities: he was tall, muscular, tan, and had a charming personality. He was helpful, friendly, communicative, willing and calm. He had a nice smile. And here’s the thing that I loved most about Max: he woke me up.

For a long time, I hadn’t felt anything but depression, resentment, anger, betrayal or hurt. I could barely remember feeling any other way. But there was something about Max. Was it possible that he was flirting with me? Now something inside me, that elusive feeling we refer to as chemistry or magnetism, was slowly blooming. I felt as if I were waking from a deep, long slumber. And for the first time in probably six months, I felt hope.