The Three Year Anniversary of the Beginning of the End (My Marriage, Part 1)

Hilton Head proved to be a good place for thinking.

This Sunday, September 1 marks the three year anniversary of the beginning of the end of my marriage. In mid-August of 2010, I went with my then-husband’s family on their annual pilgrimage to Hilton Head. During this trip it was as though I had awoken from a long, deep, foggy sleep during which I had been oblivious by choice to all of the goings on around me. I had come to accept some unacceptable behaviors from my then-husband, and I had chosen to pretend that other behaviors did not exist. I also chose to deny the ever crashing downward spiral our marriage was in. And then, as we drove to meet his family at the beach, somewhere around the Georgia-South Carolina border, I just woke up.

I started to see things as they really were. I noticed how the man I was married to no longer resembled the one I had dated and married. I saw how my husband, once so clean cut and neat looking, now looked like the Unabomber after two months in hiding. On the trip I began to think it odd that he had packed two large bottles of liquor that he would get out and pour himself drinks from late at night as he watched tv with his 15 year old half-brother, never bothering to come to bed until well after I had turned in for the night. First, two large bottles of liquor for a four day trip? And, second, drinking with your 15 year old half-brother? Come on! I began to view my then husband’s red-rimmed eyes, inability to get up in the morning, and lack of interest in anything I wanted to do, not with pity and understanding, but with anger.

I called my mom after the first night we were there and told her I wanted to come home, and that I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue with the man that I felt I didn’t know at all anymore. I decided to do things that would make me happy while I was at the beach—things that I had not done previously because I was so busy trying to do everything to make my husband happy. I had always wanted to visit the knitting and stitching shops in the area but, as he was never interested in accompanying me, I had never gone before. So I set out on my own to do the things that I liked. First, I went to the nearby Target and got a phone charger and a phone headset. I then took day trips on the first two days, and while driving I talked nonstop with my mom, which allowed me to process my feelings and helped me to get to the clarity of mind that allowed me to make a life-changing decision. When back at the condo I decided to be honest. I called my ex-husband out on his bad behavior. I think he was so shocked that he didn’t even know how to react, because he was so used to my taciturn acceptance and enabling. We did not talk much during the remainder of the trip, and the ride back was nearly silent.

The day after we got back to Atlanta we went out to breakfast. We went to a place we never usually went and had to use the GPS to find it. The most notable communication we had that morning was a vicious argument about how to properly hang the GPS on the front window to keep it from falling off. He maintained the suction cup needed to be moistened before hanging it, and I maintained that it did not. Although he was actually correct, it was clear that the argument had nothing to do with the GPS. I am sure some of you know exactly what I am talking about.

Marriages ebb and flow like the tide. There are times in every marriage, even successful ones, in which the couple is on better terms than they are at other times. There are times when couples go through things, when they disagree, when they may just not love and appreciate each other quite as much as they once did, and all of this is normal. In successful marriages, however, the tide turns, and the pendulum swings back in the other direction, to a place where the couple is once again in love and appreciative of one another. What no one tells you before you get married, though, is that it is possible that your seemingly loving, wonderful, even perfect relationship can swing so far in the negative direction that it is just incapable of bouncing back. On the day of the GPS argument, my marriage was in such a condition.

We could have fought about the GPS, the weather, the state of the economy, and probably even over whether or not the sky was blue. The point is, no matter what the issue may have been, we would have vehemently disagreed. I think we each felt the other was holding us back from something. We had slowly come to know, after our first days of marriage, that we were not as compatible as we had originally seemed. We did not have similar interests, similar values, similar notions of family or love, similar ideas about acceptable quantities of alcohol to consume on a daily basis, or similar goals in life. To everything that I said to-MAY-to, he said to-MA-to. And it truly was time to call the whole thing off.

When I tried on swimsuits, I felt like Shamu wrapped in
a bookcover!

About three weeks after we returned from the beach, after many hours of the kind of deep self-reflection typically only achieved with the help of mind altering drugs, I was on the verge of making a decision. Then, on Sunday, August 22, I went shopping for a new swimsuit. You ladies know how it is. Shopping for a swimsuit can be a really horrible experience. I was only trying to get one to, you know, actually swim in when I went to the YMCA to exercise, so I was just looking for a modest one-piece and I didn’t have to worry about all of the problem areas that might be seen had I been buying a two-piece. Well, on top of all of the emotional turmoil I felt due to all of the reflecting I had been doing, swimsuit shopping proved to be too much for me. I didn’t find even one swimsuit that I thought made me look marginally better than Shamu wrapped in a book cover, and I came home, upset and in tears. My then-husband comforted me by patting my shoulder, clearly thinking about someone or something else. I knew he didn’t want to try to make me feel better, and I didn’t really want him trying to make me feel better, so I went back in our bedroom, closed the door, and sought comfort from my dogs instead.

That night, we ended up having another fight, and he made a comment so disparaging, so personal, and so aimed at the things I disliked most about myself that the tenuous thread that connected me to him just snapped.

“I want you to get out of my house,” I told him, finding that I meant it more than I had meant anything in a long time.

I had bought the house before we were married and, although by that time both of our names were on the mortgage, the house was down the street from my parents, and we both knew it really was my house. I don’t think he had any desire to be neighbors with my parents at that point.

The next morning when we woke up, him sleeping on the couch as he had done for the past year, I think he thought my imperative would have slipped away with the darkness. But I meant it.

“I want you out of my house today,” I repeated, but he didn’t take me seriously.

It took over a week to finally make a believer of him, but he finally realized that I was dead serious about wanting him gone. He had hemmed and hawed, and generally not believed me, but on Wednesday, September 1, in a loud and showy manner, he packed up some clothes and other items, and announced, as I sat on the bed examining the new Clarisonic face washing tool my mom had given me, “Well, I guess I’ll go then.” He said it in that way that ten year olds announce they are running away from home, with plenty of room for someone to say, “No, don’t go. I really want you to stay. I’m sorry.”

But I didn’t say anything, other than, “Okay.”

He walked out of my house that night, and when the front door closed behind his retreating back, another, brighter and much more hopeful door opened.

NOTE: There will be no blog post on Monday, September 2, in observance of Labor Day. Regular posting will resume on Tuesday, September 3.

Hilton Head image courtesy of http://www.discoverthetrip.com

Shamu image courtesy of http://en.wikipedia.org

An Ode to My First Love

My 1992 White Ford Explorer, Whitey Ford, was the most
important man in my life for many years!

In 1994, when I was 15 years old, my parents bought a car for me to drive. They bought me a three-year-old green Ford Explorer, Eddie Bauer edition, with a moon roof. Now, I know it was a safe car, and that they got a really good deal buying it used, but, if I had a child approaching driving age I think I might be more likely to buy him or her, say, a 20 year old Dodge Neon, or a 1987 Fiat, or something like that. I have no plausible explanation for why my parents got me such a nice car, but I know I was the object of much car envy at school for quite awhile. I loved my car and drove it enthusiastically for about a year and a half, at which point I was involved in a really bad accident and my car was totaled, and-thank God- it wasn't my fault!

You know how people like to tell a girl who has just broken up with her boyfriend that there are other fish in the sea and all that? Well, I wasn't feeling that way about cars when my car got totaled! I was thinking that there was no way I would ever find a car as wonderful as my green Ford Explorer—until, that is, Whitey Ford drove into my life. He was sleek and white and shiny, and he really knew how to carry those 1,800 pounds and make them look good! There was insurance money from the totaled Explorer to cover the cost of the car, and I ended up with a 1992 white Ford Explorer with black running boards. As you have probably guessed by now, I named him Whitey Ford, and he was fantastic! Whitey Ford saw me through many important years. He was there for lots of important life moments, went on many trips with me, and, although I washed and waxed him more regularly in the early stages of our relationship, he continued to maintain a dignified luster well into his old age.

One of my earliest memories of old Whitey is the night that a group of my friends and I went to Lenox Park, an office park/greenspace near my house. We were out of high school at that point, and we liked to go to Lenox Park at night during the summer to hang out and do things that now you couldn't pay me to do, like playing hide and seek in the bushes. Shockingly, we did not go to the park to drink, smoke, or do anything else that was illicit for 18 year olds. While some of my friends did do these things, I guess we just weren't outdoorsy people, as many of my friends preferred to do their underage drinking while ensconced in brightly lit, indoor settings.

On the particular night in question, my friend, Mario, who often went around town with me in my car, had a young lady friend visiting from California. It might even have been the night of our senior prom- I really don't remember. I just remember that my friends and I were at the park, and when we went to get out of the car, Mario and his lady friend informed us that they did not wish to join the hide and seek party. They probably used some flimsy excuse about allergies, or bug bites, or something equally weak. The rest of us went off to have fun and, when I returned to the car I noticed that the windows were all fogged up. Upon opening the door, I found Mario and his lady friend both looking rather guilty. I believe Mario's words to me were something like "Don't come knocking when the Explorer's rocking," or something similar. He then said something that I don't even think I would repeat to George Carlin, if he were still alive, and I felt an overpowering urge to steam clean and sanitize my car immediately. The worst part was knowing that Whitey Ford would have to live with whatever had happened during my absence, and he'd have to deal with it with no way to discuss his feelings. I have many other memories of my beloved car, with that one being the most psychically disturbing.

A Cypress Hill song blew my speakers!

I also recall several instances in which some of my friends and I had freeze out/burn out contests in the car. During the winter we would take off our coats and turn the air conditioning up full blast, and see who was the first to get so cold that he or she had to exit the car. In the summer we would turn the heat on high and see who was the first to need to escape the inferno. More times than I care to count I had the music on so loudly playing something like Cypress Hill's Insane in the Brain, that I eventually blew all of the car's speakers. There were several times that my car drove us to Lake Lanier, which is just north of Atlanta. There we did something that, if I had kids and they did it I would murder them before they could die of the recklessness of such an act. A couple of my male friends would stand up on the back bumper of my car, holding on to the luggage rack, and I would drive us down the winding roads around the lake at a speed that my mom would have frowned upon.

My car, my Whitey Ford, was my first love, outside of my family and pets. My relationship with him was longer and more reliable than my relationships with any other men I've ever known. He was, not only a great provider of safe and reliable transportation, but also a witness to some important growing up years. Unfortunately, in 2008, Whitey Ford succumbed to a dead transmission and, with great heartache, he went to live in the old scrap heap in the sky, and a new car came into my life. But that is a story for another time.

Ford Explorer image courtesy of http://www.autopten.com

Cypress Hill image courtesy of http://www.fanart.tv

Showdown in the Girls’ Locker Room! (Or How to Avoid a Girl Fight)

The junior high gym locker room- a place of terror
for me forever after.

Ahhh—junior high school. A time when everyone has raging hormones, you are super concerned about what you wear every day, and you have to worry about having your clothes stolen out of the locker room during gym class. For many of us, junior high school, or middle school, as it is often called, is a time of great change and growth and, for those of us who were not part of the “in” crowd, junior high school could also be a time of great difficulty.

Before I get into the mechanics of junior high school, let me begin by telling you a couple of things about my personality. First, I am someone who likes to tell it like it is. I have trouble pretending that I think someone or something is fantastic when I really think they are stupid, and I also tend to just call things as I see them. One problem I’ve had throughout my life has been that many people do not enjoy being told things as they are, and would prefer things be sugarcoated, or that you just tell them what they want to hear. I am also not someone who backs down in discussing or defending something I believe in, or in standing up for myself. Now, if you are someone who has only known me since I was married, during what I call “The Meek Years,” you may not know this, but that is just how I am. And sometimes it has gotten me in trouble, as you will see in just a second. Now, I am not rude or anything, and I do have the common sense to employ tact in how I speak to others, but I just like to be straight up with people.

When I was in eighth grade, I had gym class every single day the first period of the day. That’s right! I got to smell bad for the entire day, well, if we even did anything in gym class at all. I had an awesome gym teacher who pretty much let us just walk the track if we chose to, while the more competitive students actually participated in sports. My interest in just walking the track was motivated in equal parts by my lack of competitiveness and by my desire not to stink when I sat next to the boy I liked during fourth period. I had two friends in my gym class, a boy and a girl who shared my sentiments about first period gym. We would walk the track together, and often, out of sight of the teacher, look for four-leaf clovers and then sit on the bleachers on the side of the field and just talk. The more popular kids, in the meantime, would be playing a cutthroat game of soccer, or even running the track jumping hurdles, both of which I would only have done had a huge monetary reward been involved. However, we could probably have been over on the bleachers swigging a cold 40, and the teacher wouldn’t have noticed or cared. That is what made him an awesome teacher!

Jaws is scary!

The one sport I didn’t mind playing during gym class was basketball. I had played all of my life with my brothers, and I was good enough at it that I could actually play with the more competitive kids and still do pretty well. So, one day in the winter, as my two friends walked the perimeter of the gym, I played basketball. At the end of the period, I walked with the two of them back toward the locker room, bouncing the basketball as I went. Now, and here was my fatal mistake, one time when I bounced the ball I tried to volley it off of my ankle, and it flew away from me and out of my control. It bounced off the back of a large girl who was probably twice my height and three times my width. She was an eighth grader and, even today, the thought of her makes my knees knock, and almost makes me wet my pants. The girl turned around, and, I swear, she looked like the James Bond villain Jaws, although a slightly, and I emphasize the word slightly, more feminine version. At the time, though, she appeared no less deadly than Jaws at his very worst. I ran over to pick up the ball, and Jaws glared down at me, murderous rage clouding her face. I picked up the ball, apologized, and ran away into the locker room.

When I got inside I put the basketball up, and then walked to the front of the changing area where I had left my clothes in a locker. Suddenly, a shadow appeared over me. I turned around trepedatiously, and there was Jaws, looming over me like a lion stalking a gazelle.

“You! You hit me with the ball!” she shouted in a voice like that of Megatron from the Transformers.

“Yes, but I apologized,” I replied, sounding more confident than I felt.

“You! You can’t hit me with a ball! No one hits me with a ball! She boomed down at me. This was probably the moment at which I began trembling.

“Now,” she continued, “You better say you’re sorry!”

“I’m sorry,” I responded timidly.

“Say, “I’m sorry!”” she barked at me like a drill sergeant in the army.

“I’m, I’m sorry,” I spouted, on the verge of crying.

As she was talking, she had edged me back into a corner, up against a wall in the locker room. There was no one else in sight, and I had visions of one of the female PE coaches finding my broken body back in that corner, tossed aside like last week’s trash. I tried to prepare myself for death. I can’t say my life flashed before my eyes or anything, but I did probably consider which of my friends I would leave my burgeoning makeup collection to. As I cowered, hoping that my dismemberment would be swift and painless, the girl bellowed one more command.

“Now, say “I’m sorry Amber Willis!” she demanded. Like an obedient dog, I reacted quickly.

“I’m sorry Amber Willis!” I announced loudly. “Very sorry.”

The girl stared at me and said, with the toughness of Dirty Harry, “Now, don’t do it again.”

And with that she turned and exited the locker room. Realizing that I was still in one piece and had not, indeed, peed my pants, I quickly changed back into my school clothes and went to my next class. Throughout the day my friends consoled me as I worried that Amber Willis would be back to seek her revenge the next day or the next week or the next month. However, she never did. I guess she just wanted to assert her dominance and make sure I understood the eighth grade gym class pecking order, which, after that, you better believe I did! No longer did I walk in from the gym, carelessly bouncing a basketball. From then on I held any object that could potentially hit Amber Willis tightly to me, and I began using a buddy system in the locker room. I would make sure I was always with at least one other girl at all times, so that if I was approached for an intended assault, there would be someone to run for help, and to hopefully get to me before I bled out.

I cannot say that I would relive my junior high school years for anything in the world, except for maybe the part where I could eat junky food all day long and not gain weight. I would certainly never want to have to re-experience the horror that is junior high gym class, but Amber Willis taught me an important lesson about always telling people exactly what I think—namely that there are times when I shouldn’t. I have learned to temper my honesty, especially when someone wields a lot of power or stands to easily beat me up. Today I am still honest, I still say what I think, and I still defend myself, only there is much less of a chance of me receiving a physical or metaphorical beating in doing so. Hooray for progress!

Locker room image courtesy of http://www.fightingvikings.com

Jaws image courtesy of http://jamesbondreview.blogspot.com

A Celebration of Marriage (No, Really!)

My mom and dad in 1969.

Today is my parents’ 42^nd wedding anniversary. Now, first, I marvel at the fact that two people can commit to each other successfully for 42 days, so 42 years to me is off-the-charts fantastic. Whenever people tell me that they or someone they know has been married for any period of time longer than the amount of time I was married, I am always in awe of them. My marriage lasted six and a half years. Six and a half long years. In fact, due to the amount of strife that occurred during that time period, it is almost like I was married for 42 years! However, we will not dwell on my former marital problems today. Today will be a big old love fest as we celebrate my parents’ marriage. Allow me to give you a little history.

My parents, Steve and Gwyn, met in 1969 on a blind date. No, I am not kidding. Though it might be the world’s first and only successful match made on a blind date, it did happen. My mom broke a mirror as she was getting ready for her date with my dad, so she was afraid that he would turn out to be some unspeakably ugly person with horrible breath and a limp. However, this fear turned out to be unfounded. She ended up with my dad, who, by all accounts, was quite the looker back then.

When my parents met, my mom was a senior in high school, and my dad was in his freshman year of college. Although many guys might not consider it cool to date a high school girl, my mom was fetching enough that my dad never gave any of the college girls a second look. When they started dating, my dad took my mom to fraternity parties, and even gave her his lavaliere. They rang in the seventies as a couple.

Mom and Dad mugging by the cake at their wedding.

In 1971, my mom and dad got married. My mom was only 20, and my dad was 21. Now, when I was that age, I considered it a success if I actually woke up when my alarm went off, and my biggest commitment at that point in my life was to always use toner in my nightly skincare routine. However, back when my parents started dating, people got married, and, in general, took on other responsibilities at much younger ages than they do now. As you can tell from my parents’ groovy duds, their wedding clearly took place in the seventies. Notice my dad’s awesome hair and my mom’s cool eye makeup. (I am actually not making fun of the eye makeup—I really like it. The hair—well, okay, maybe I am making fun of the hair a little.)

My parents went on to have three adorable children. Christopher, Audrey, and Devin. Well, okay, to be honest, Christopher and Devin were passably attractive children, while Audrey’s beauty and cuteness outshone even the brightest stars in the sky. Christopher was born in 1975, when Gwyn was 24, and Steve was 25. Audrey was born three years later in 1978, and Devin was born three years even later, in 1981. When I ponder the ages my parents were when they became, well, parents, I am dumbfounded. When I was 24, I was completing my teaching certificate on my parents’ dime because I had not initially gotten a degree in something that lent itself to making a living. I was living at home with my mom and dad, and enjoying doing things like giving myself an at-home pedicure at 2 PM on a Tuesday because I only worked part time while getting my certificate. The fact that my parents were working and raising a family at the same age makes me feel awestruck, lucky to have been able to delay adulthood for so long, and a little sorry that I didn’t possess the drive and adultness they did at such a young age.

On the back of this photo, next to my name, it says in
parentheses "with dirty face."

I then consider that when my mom was my age, 35, she had three children, the oldest of whom was eleven. I do have pets, though, for whom I successfully care, and none of who have died due to my lack of attention, so I guess that’s a good sign. Plus, I usually pay for most of my own stuff, except when my parents refuse to let me, and when my mom gives me cash for no reason, which I give back to her and later find stuffed in the pocket on the side of my purse/knitting bag.

All in all, I would say my brothers and I got extraordinarily lucky with our parents. They are loving, kind, generous, intelligent, funny, and wonderful people; and they did their best to instill those values in each of us. (They didn’t have to try to instill adorableness, particularly in young Audrey, as it just came naturally.) My parents have provided a great example of a loving, functional, and real marriage. They have always been honest with each other, and willing to say what they really thought to each other, which I think has been an important part of their success as a couple.

Mom and Dad in late 2012. They've still got it!

I, therefore, have no explanation as to why I have always been such a terrible picker when it comes to relationships. Maybe when I started dating I thought someone told me it was Opposite Day, and I was supposed to pick guys who were the opposite of what I wanted, or maybe I accidentally chose the Bizarro versions of all the guys I was supposed to choose. Who knows? Anyway, I am finally starting to try to choose better people in my life, and I can thank my parents for helping me, even at my ripe old age, see that you should not date guys who, say, don’t have cars, or who pay for first date meals with gift cards.

I will leave you with a recent photo of my parents. If I do say so myself, and I do, they still make quite the dashing couple. They now have three grown children who are at least moderately successful, a lovely granddaughter, and many grand-doggies and kitties. I’d say they have a pretty good life, which they have earned every step of the way. Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

An Open Letter to the Bee That Stung Me Yesterday

You are a crafty one, Yellow Jacket!

Today marks the beginning of a new type of blog post: open letters. I used to write open letters just on my Facebook page, and I may post one of those from time to time, but, for the most part, any open letter I write will be new. Without further adieu, I present an open letter I have written to the yellow jacket that stung me yesterday.

Dear Yellow Jacket,

Before I take you to task for your shocking and nefarious behavior yesterday, let me first commend you on the subterfuge you employed in landing on my leg without my noticing. I was cutting the grass in my backyard, listening to music, and generally enjoying life, when I felt a searing pain on my right inner thigh. I looked down to see you, attached to the outside of my Dri-FIT exercise shorts. One second you were not there, and then you were.  It was amazing! Your speed and secrecy in mounting your attack impressed me. Well played, Yellow Jacket, well played. Now, Yellow Jacket, I am impressed with the strength of your stinger, and that you were able to get me through a layer of fabric. However, let me suggest that next time you simply request that I remove my shorts first. I will say no, of course, unless you offer to buy me dinner first, but your posing the question will allow me enough advanced warning to avoid your attack.

Once I felt the searing pain in my thigh, I began shaking my leg to try to get you off of me. I grabbed the edges of my shorts and shook them violently, and, eventually, you fell off. While I do wish you the best in your future endeavors, Yellow Jacket, because I am not someone who holds a grudge, I am afraid you didn't make it through the event. You see, after you fell off, I inadvertently ran the lawn mower over the spot on the ground where you landed. After your devastating and untimely death, Yellow Jacket, I took a break from cutting the grass and got some ice to put on the site of your attack. I had a huge red welt, and my leg throbbed like the disco beats you can find on an old episode of Soul Train.

If you take Cialis, Yellow Jacket, you and your little
yellow jacket wife can sit in bathtubs together.

Once the pain began to dissipate, and the swelling went down, I searched for your stinger. Now, Yellow Jacket, I must tell you that, while your stinger is strong, it is also very tiny, and was very difficult to remove. Do you have stinger envy, Yellow Jacket? Was your attack on me an attempt to prove to all the other male yellow jackets that you are manly and virile, and that you do not need to take Cialis before attempting to sting someone?

Either way, Yellow Jacket, please be aware that if you by some miracle survived the incident, next time stinging me will not be such a simple feat. If you sting me again I will seek out your home, and drive out all of your little yellow jacket friends with fire. You have been warned!

Sincerely,

Audrey V. Broome

Yellow jacket image courtesy of http://urbanjunglehoney.blogspot.com/

Cialis image courtesy of http://www.sodahead.com