I was married for 15 years and have been divorced now for 12. I liked being married. I would even go so far as to assert that I was good at it. I said good, not great. Not the best wife ever but for sure in the 85th percentile of high functioning, middleclass wives. But that season of my life ended and here I sit a dozen years later having dabbled in a few relationships along the way but decidedly, if not permanently, then indefinitely single. One of the relationships I picked up has been with a qualified, licensed therapist. That one – he’s a keeper. Every three weeks I get to course-correct, evaluate, and recommit to living an authentic, healthy, and meaningful existence. Sure, invariably I get held accountable for my own actions and, however rude that might be, it has proven to be successful in my personal growth. Still left minus a plus one, though. How best, then, to navigate this journey from “me” to “we”?
For several years I subscribed to the notion that “love finds you when you least expect it.” Full transparency – the biggest appeal of that particular dogma is that it requires no effort on my part, and I am, at my core, lazy. Unfortunately, I am also “socially selective” which means I am somewhat of an OG Social Distancer. It just seemed like more than is reasonable to expect for love to find my house, gain entry, bypass pets and children on its way to my bedroom and dare to interrupt my compulsive and perpetual binge-watching of West Wing. I know, I K-N-O-W – “Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained.” But also – and hear me out on this one – “Nothing Ventured, Nothing Hurt.” The original notion should come annotated with an asterisk.
“Love Finds You When You Least Expect It *.” (* – and you feel deserving of love)
Divorce had left me plum undone in the worst possible ways. My anxiety assured me that I was a failure incapable of being loved. If I had been thinner, prettier, smarter, sexier, more charming, more (fill in the blank), he would have stayed. My prolonged status as singleton made perfect sense within that narrative. It would be unfair of me not to make clear that these were my internal tapes and not the words of my ex-husband. My interpretation of his actions and choices, however, is a whole ‘nother story. Love may have been able to find me but convincing me I wasn’t being punked would prove next to impossible. This pit-stop in my “me to we” journey had a big out of order sign on the bathroom and a sketchy cast of characters looming in front of the slurpee machine.
Therapy armed me with tools that really helped me heal my hurt. It had me doing a deep dive into what brings me joy, what makes me happy, what inspires me. After decades of making accommodations to ensure the happiness of those around me, the focus now turned to ME. This presented across the board in my life, and I think especially for moms it is pretty common. My choice in (fill in the blank) was always going to be the path of least resistance, whatever was easiest, not too much trouble. One day while grocery shopping, I stood in the aisle facing the daunting assortment of nut butters, robotically reaching out to snag our usual jar of store brand creamy when I stopped dead in my tracks.
“But I don’t like creamy,” I said to myself tentatively. My internal voice repeated the phrase, emphasizing a new word with each iteration.
“I don’t like creamy.” “I don’t like creamy.” “I don’t like creamy.”
until my inner Sherry was screaming
“I DON’T LIKE *&@#?<+ CREAMY PEANUT BUTTER!! NEVER HAVE! NEVER WILL!!!”
and I grabbed the biggest jar of Jiff Extra Crunchy the Krogers on North Street in Nacogdoches, Texas offered. That day I proudly staked my claim as a lover and consumer of Bougie and Be-nutted peanut butter and strutted my stuff all the way to the self check out. (I might like it Bougie and Be-nutted, but I’m not boastful. That checker didn’t need me flexing like that). Slowly, I started to examine all aspects of my life – beyond the butter, if you will. In what other areas was I just going with the flow and how best do I intercede and impart my own will?
Post-divorce, my criteria for male suitors was:
- “ya wanna?”
- “Uh … ya sure?”
Resulting relationships had been less than stellar. Shocker, right? I started off by asking myself if I was actually lonely or if I just felt societal pressure to get all boo’d up with someone. Don’t get it twisted, I am quite content being single. I have a great job that I love and that provides well for my family. I have amazing friends who love me and support me, my toilet seat is ALWAYS down, I sleep diagonally across a whole entire queen-size bed, and I watch television programming positively saturated in estrogen constantly and unapologetically. Before I give up all that for some Cootie-laced Boy, trust and believe he is going to have to be pretty gosh darn special. My pontification resulted in my realization that I honestly do not see myself getting married again, ever. God has His own plans for me, and I am not finna stick my nose in what He has in store for me, but I do hope that I find myself in a loving and committed relationship with someone, someday. I won’t bore you with the laundry list of qualities, non-starters, deal-breakers, and non-negotiables that has culminated but I do find it so interesting that since discovering more about myself and acknowledging my own worth, suddenly the cost of admission to punch my proverbial dance card is pretty high.
Sorting out what I am looking for in a potential beau has made online dating both liberating and entertaining. Not productive for the intended purpose in the least, though. First pass, I weed out anyone who doesn’t have the appropriate usage of “your” and “you’re” down. There is not one skill you could possibly possess that would negate this gross oversight in your personal educational experience. Pseudo-literacy just does NOT make my skirt fly up. I do make exceptions over “y’all” and “ya’ll” but even those are rare. Mrs. Brown in elementary school just did a bang-up job in that unit that covered contractions back in the day and I quite frankly don’t see the challenge in mastery. Second pass through is your choice of photos included in your profile. I am 100% checking out the reflection in any mirror present.
Additionally, here are some helpful photo tips to remember:
- Are there sheets on your bed or were you raised in an actual crack house and are sleeping on a bare mattress?
- Is there a top sheet and a bottom sheet?
- Are there pillowcases and do they all match (both to each other and to the sheets)?
- Is the bed made?
- What is on your bedside table?
- Can I see your actual floor or is it covered with detritus?
- If the photo is taken in the bathroom, imma need to know what all ‘dem pill bottles are for.
- Pick up your dang towel and clean your toilet, ya nasty.
- If you send me a photo of your dangly bits, I will look at it and judge it and you accordingly. While not medically or legally binding in any significant way, I will make referrals for you to have any suspicious moles, lesions, or secretions checked out.
- It just cannot be said enough – if you are considering sending a woman a picture of that … don’t. I am 52 years old and in all of my conversations with my fellow females not one has ever said, “what really sealed the deal for me was when he sent me an unsolicited photo of his junk.”
- Are you wearing a novelty t-shirt that reads “Nicest Asshole You’ll Ever Meet”? Don’t tease me with a good time, Sailor.
- Is the picture actually of you and is it recent? Technology now allows for both Google image search and digital imprint of information of your image. Also, Hot Tub Time Machine was not, in fact, based on a true story. Dad-bods are in these days. Lean into it. Save the old photos for a Throwback Thursday post on Facebook. I will scorch the earth beneath your feet if I catch you trying to flim flam me, sir.
- Is your wedding ring visible in your picture? Did your wife take the photo because that is really going to chap her hide probably more so than your infidelity because 9 times out of 10, she bought the clothes you are wearing, washed them, folded them, put them away, set them out for you to wear that day and composed the picture in the most flattering position possible for her own social media purposes.
So, friends … my journey from “me to we” is still very much a work in progress. Aside from my relationship with my therapist, my favorite courtship I have had is with myself. I threw myself headfirst into marriage and motherhood with joyous and reckless abandon and along the way I lost sight of myself. I forgot all about the sarcastic tomboy with dreams of a life on the stage or in front of a classroom of kids. I ignored the caring and compassionate person who nurtured those around her that needed a hype woman. I stopped laughing at my own jokes. I allowed others to treat me poorly and, what’s worse, is that I was the worst offender. I spoke horribly to myself and held little to no regard for the traumas I have endured or struggles I have encountered much less the many successes I have experienced that were a direct result of my talent and abilities. At the end of the day, if the worst thing that comes out of all of this life after divorce is that I am left by myself with no partner in crime, that doesn’t seem so bad at all.