When Your Ex Moves On

I’m friends with some of my ex-boyfriends on Facebook (and who isn’t) I read their news feeds, and on rare occasions, I’ll leave a comment. They’re always innocent, and devoid of innuendo or flirtation. Recently I was trolling around, I mean researching, and saw a picture of one of my ex-boyfriend’s spanking new baby boy! Huh? I was in shock. We only broke up eight years ago. How could he just move on like that.

Did I expect him to never love again? To never find anyone as superfantastical as me? Well, yes. Why was I reacting this way? The truth is, seeing that Peter had not only married, but procreated, made me feel melancholy and nostalgic. And if I’m not mistaken, my ego felt as if it had been kicked.

Did what we had together mean nothing to him? I know other men that I’ve bedded, dated, or married (just that one) dated other women after me, some married and became fathers, but Peter was different. He was the first guy that I kissed, and slept with after I got divorced. He fed my physical needs that laid dormant for years, and he restored my faith in good old fashioned lust. There’s a certain power in the ‘transitional relationship’.

The circumstances in which I found myself on Peter’s Facebook page that fateful Tuesday evening, was not the stuff rational thinking is made of. I was cranky about my Pilates clients dropping like flies, I was wondering if I wasn’t better off, culturally and professionally speaking, living in New York City and most important, I probably hadn’t eaten in a few hours, which sends me into a hypoglycemic coma of sorts. In a nutshell, I was feeling vulnerable, emotional and wee wackadoo.

In my experience, our reactions to certain events, like seeing a photo of an ex-boyfriend’s baby, looking all cherub-like, cutesy and perfect, are often attributed to how we feel about ourselves and what’s going on (or not going on) in our life, which is why I started glamorizing the past, because surely it was all sunshine and gummy bears, as opposed to the crap ass day that I had just had.

What if Peter and I didn’t break up? What if I stayed in Los Angeles? What if I got a killer job as a writer, we married, moved to the beach and I birthed a healthy baby? Hmm. I can tell you that this line of thinking is futile, because there is no way of knowing the answers to 'what if' questions, and it certainly won’t make your crap ass day feel any less crappier.

There was another reason for my reaction to the baby photo, that I glared at, imagining he was mine, searching for a resemblance. (Okay, that was creepy) Getting older makes me think about all that I haven’t yet accomplished. So when I surf the internet, looking at friends and lovers from my youth, and the families they’ve created, or the books that they’ve published, or the Oprah appearance that they just made, I’m already in a piss ant mood.

After a few moments fantasizing about the what if’s, and might’ve beens, I realized how unproductive I was being. I snapped out of my reverie, and brought myself back to reality, my reality. I know now, after years of tailspins and mental spiraling, that a bad day is just that, a bad day. And bad days come, and more to the point, they go.

One of the beautiful things that come with age, besides the decrease in estrogen and collagen, is the wisdom to know what pushes our buttons, and when we’re doing something (or reading something) that we know isn’t good for us. 

I don’t want Peter or his life. And I do think that it can be healthy to review the choices that we make, if only to learn from them, not dwell on them. And when we’re in our moods, it’s easy to think that the grass is greener, especially when you’re hungry, but it’s not. It's just a different variety of grass.

It’s a cliche but I wouldn’t be where I am today, if I hadn’t made the decisions that I made eight years ago. I live with a sexy Portuguese man, who overfeeds my physical needs and has taught me the true meaning of paixao (it’s Portuguese, look it up) I write and I help people to feel their true health and wellness potential through Pilates, and for this I am truly blessed.

However, if you choose to ignore my cautionary tale, and continue to troll the internet for old boyfriends, or happen upon one in your research, please keep the following in mind.
- You are the only one that can make you happy
- If you’re frustrated or displeased with your current situation, change it.
- Your ex is your past, not your present.
- Before you start wishing that you had done things differently, (when you’re looking at your ex’s baby’s photo) think back to your relationship and see it as it was, not as you think it was or wanted it to be.
- We’re all getting older, and feeling nostalgic for the past is fine, as long as you can appreciate the glory in your present days as well. Time marches on too damn fast to ‘dwell’ in the past.

I took my own advice and before I left Peter’s Facebook page, I reminded myself why we never would’ve worked. My relationship with Los Angeles had ended, so I had to fly away. I never wanted to get married (that one time was a mistake) and I never wanted kids. And lest I forget, Peter cheated on me, so I had to break up with the doucher. He made me cry on New Year's Day, and for that I hope he gets an incurable case of crabs.

If I Had A Hammer

When I was asked to write about building a  house with my boyfriend, and how we’re keeping it together (our relationship, not the house) I starting thinking about how easy it’s been. Then again, I’m comparing it to the last time I owned a house with a man. Let’s call him my ex-husband. So really, anything short of divorce feels like I’m ahead of the game.

When my ex-husband and I decided to buy a house, I wasn’t exactly excited by the idea. I was hesitant and knew deep down that I didn’t want a house (kind of like how I knew deep down that I never wanted to be married). Somehow, I instinctively knew that being a homeowner wasn’t to be taken likely. Not like having a baby. We were having a house!

I didn’t want the responsibility. Being a dog owner was about as responsible as I wanted to get. Most of the time I have just enough bandwidth to go food shopping and showering, let alone, grouting, gardening, and painting. But I stupidly agreed, ignoring the little voice inside of me, which was screaming the loudest, “STOP, don’t do it. It’s wrong. You’re wrong.” In the end, I succumbed to peer pressure, just like I did when I said, “I do.”

My ex assured me that it would be our house and that we’d share the responsibility. We’d be partners in the endeavor. Bullshit! It was like talking to a five year old when they want a dog, “Please, please can I have one? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. You won’t have to do anything. Trust me.”

I resented my ex-husband for the remainder of our marriage, which dragged on for another year. A year where I watered a lawn that I never wanted, and fixed endless garage doors and gates that I grew to hate. I was angry at him for lying to me and pushing me into something that was based on false pretenses. I was also angry at myself for not listening to my gut. That was never going to happen again.

And it didn’t. This time around is different. For one thing, my boyfriend and I aren’t married, so there’s no chance of divorce. How’s that for maturity? I was very honest and clear about my feelings regarding building a house. It’s my boyfriend’s dream to have a beach house, not mine. I could rent for the rest of my life. I don’t look at a house as anything other than another place to do laundry.

I’m an active participant, and we’re picking out plumbing fixtures and windows together, but my boyfriend has taken the lead, which he’s done with aplomb. This is important to me because the last time a house was involved, I tended to use it as an excuse. I couldn’t possibly write, or work on the artistic endeavor that I was involved in at the time. I had to make a Home Depot run for steel wool, so I could clean the rust off of the antique kitchen cabinet handles. Clearly that was more important goddam it!

Speaking of kitchen cabinets. We hired an Amish man to build our cabinets. He’s a sweet man, and takes his Amishness very seriously. Since he can’t drive, he has a driver to chauffeur him around and he borrows a non-Amish person’s phone to call clients. I’m convinced that he’s crushing on me. He and my boyfriend were at the house a couple of weeks ago, reviewing the final measurements. When I walked through the temporary plywood front door, his face lit up like I was a spanking new horse and buggy.  He said, “What’s going on?” I replied, “My electricity. You?”

Through this current house process, I’m learning that nothing, not even a convection oven, or wood toilet seat cover, is worth getting my thong in a bunch over. Maybe it’s because I’m older. Maybe it has something to do with my boyfriend being able to change a lightbulb and acting like an adult. Or perhaps it could be that honesty really is the way to go.

I show up when I need to, make a decision when I’m asked to, and I’m not procrastinating, as evidenced by this article. I think the following exchange with the salesperson at Ferguson’s Plumbing and Builder Products sums up our attitudes best.

Saleswoman: “Do you have any idea what kind of bathtub that you’re looking for?”
Boyfriend: “The bathtub has to fit two people... possibly three.”
I smile mischievously.

When Your Ex Moves On

I’m friends with some of my ex-boyfriends on Facebook (and who isn’t) I read their news feeds, and on rare occasions, I’ll leave a comment. They’re always innocent, and devoid of innuendo or flirtation. Recently I was trolling around, I mean researching, and saw a picture of one of my ex-boyfriend’s spanking new baby boy! Huh? I was in shock. We only broke up eight years ago. How could he just move on like that.

Did I expect him to never love again? To never find anyone as superfantastical as me? Well, yes. Why was I reacting this way? The truth is, seeing that Peter had not only married, but procreated, made me feel melancholy and nostalgic. And if I’m not mistaken, my ego felt as if it had been kicked.

Did what we had together mean nothing to him? I know other men that I’ve bedded, dated, or married (just that one) dated other women after me, some married and became fathers, but Peter was different. He was the first guy that I kissed, and slept with after I got divorced. He fed my physical needs that laid dormant for years, and he restored my faith in good old fashioned lust. There’s a certain power in the ‘transitional relationship’.

The circumstances in which I found myself on Peter’s Facebook page that fateful Tuesday evening, was not the stuff rational thinking is made of. I was cranky about my Pilates clients dropping like flies, I was wondering if I wasn’t better off, culturally and professionally speaking, living in New York City and most important, I probably hadn’t eaten in a few hours, which sends me into a hypoglycemic coma of sorts. In a nutshell, I was feeling vulnerable, emotional and wee wackadoo.

In my experience, our reactions to certain events, like seeing a photo of an ex-boyfriend’s baby, looking all cherub-like, cutesy and perfect, are often attributed to how we feel about ourselves and what’s going on (or not going on) in our life, which is why I started glamorizing the past, because surely it was all sunshine and gummy bears, as opposed to the crap ass day that I had just had.

What if Peter and I didn’t break up? What if I stayed in Los Angeles? What if I got a killer job as a writer, we married, moved to the beach and I birthed a healthy baby? Hmm. I can tell you that this line of thinking is futile, because there is no way of knowing the answers to 'what if' questions, and it certainly won’t make your crap ass day feel any less crappier.

There was another reason for my reaction to the baby photo, that I glared at, imagining he was mine, searching for a resemblance. (Okay, that was creepy) Getting older makes me think about all that I haven’t yet accomplished. So when I surf the internet, looking at friends and lovers from my youth, and the families they’ve created, or the books that they’ve published, or the Oprah appearance that they just made, I’m already in a piss ant mood.

After a few moments fantasizing about the what if’s, and might’ve beens, I realized how unproductive I was being. I snapped out of my reverie, and brought myself back to reality, my reality. I know now, after years of tailspins and mental spiraling, that a bad day is just that, a bad day. And bad days come, and more to the point, they go.

One of the beautiful things that come with age, besides the decrease in estrogen and collagen, is the wisdom to know what pushes our buttons, and when we’re doing something (or reading something) that we know isn’t good for us. 

I don’t want Peter or his life. And I do think that it can be healthy to review the choices that we make, if only to learn from them, not dwell on them. And when we’re in our moods, it’s easy to think that the grass is greener, especially when you’re hungry, but it’s not. It's just a different variety of grass.

It’s a cliche but I wouldn’t be where I am today, if I hadn’t made the decisions that I made eight years ago. I live with a sexy Portuguese man, who overfeeds my physical needs and has taught me the true meaning of paixao (it’s Portuguese, look it up) I write and I help people to feel their true health and wellness potential through Pilates, and for this I am truly blessed.

However, if you choose to ignore my cautionary tale, and continue to troll the internet for old boyfriends, or happen upon one in your research, please keep the following in mind.
- You are the only one that can make you happy
- If you’re frustrated or displeased with your current situation, change it.
- Your ex is your past, not your present.
- Before you start wishing that you had done things differently, (when you’re looking at your ex’s baby’s photo) think back to your relationship and see it as it was, not as you think it was or wanted it to be.
- We’re all getting older, and feeling nostalgic for the past is fine, as long as you can appreciate the glory in your present days as well. Time marches on too damn fast to ‘dwell’ in the past.

I took my own advice and before I left Peter’s Facebook page, I reminded myself why we never would’ve worked. My relationship with Los Angeles had ended, so I had to fly away. I never wanted to get married (that one time was a mistake) and I never wanted kids. And lest I forget, Peter cheated on me, so I had to break up with the doucher. He made me cry on New Year's Day, and for that I hope he gets an incurable case of crabs.