Give It Up and Let Go

When I was eight years old, my family took a trip to Uncle Dale and Aunt Thee’s lake house in Tyler.  Their house was awesome.  Right on the lake:  back door, little bit of grass, then…trampoline!...then, lake!  Texas paradise.

My cousins Mark and Janey took me water skiing.  Their advice was simple:  let go.  If you fall, let go. If you hang on, you will be dragged, face under water, at 40 miles per hour.  Your sinuses will endure a jet stream cleansing.  You will be yell for help, at which point your lungs will also fill with water.   Plus, we will not hear you, as we are not Aquaman and cannot communicate with under water creatures.  Let go.

Duh, who’s going to not let go?  I snapped on the life vest.  I strapped on the skis.  I floated, the boat picked up, and eventually, I was skiing.  I was so instantly good, I couldn’t believe it.  I was in and out of the wake.  I was Fonzie looking for a shark to jump.  Then, I was tired.  My thighs were jiggly, not just on the outside.  I was distracted.  By that boy in OP shorts?  Probably.  And I fell.  But I am no quitter.  I held on.  No way I was going to let go.  I knew I could get back up.  If only I could see.  Or breathe.  Or yell.  Or turn around, or get one leg over or… Screw it, I let go.  And it wasn’t the last time I was to go through this.

My divorce is final.  Well, I’m a signature away from being divorced, but it’s dern close.  I’m free.  A free agent.  A divorcee.  I’m a sexy divorcee.  I feel so seventies—who wants fondue? 

I’m not bitter about my marriage ending.  I’m really not.  Don’t look at me like that. I was in a good one sometimes and for a while.  It just wasn’t good enough to work any longer than it did.  I’m just annoyed that people think of divorce as failure.  Just because it ended and we’re still alive is no need to concede failure.  We were married five years. If a baseball player gets five years in the major leagues, it’s success.  A five-year run on TV, that’s enough for syndication:  success.  Five years on the Bestseller list, I’ll take it. I prefer to think we had a successful short-term marriage.

Not bitter, I just feel my thighs getting a little wobbly.

People ask how it happened.  I mean, wasn’t he The One?  Wasn’t I The Other One?  How did it go all crappy?  I think divorce is brought on by a series of red flags that can be traced back to dating.  No one really changes during marriage, just some aspect of them that was little, gets ginormous, and aggravating, and then you have to leave them.

It’s no easy thing being married.  It’s heroic, in fact.  It’s taking the person you love most and entering into a highly stressful situation:  living together—forever.  That’s the last thing you should do with a loved one.  Treat people you care about with tenderness and space.  I think of Love as a beautiful exotic bird that you’ll get to see maybe once in your life.  And marriage is like taking that bird, placing it gently in a glimmering, gilded cage, and slamming the door.  Then, once a year, opening up the cage door, punching the bird in the face and shouting, “Happy Anniversary!”

Again, not bitter.  Just getting a little water in my nose. 

Hey, do you know that when someone is murdered, their spouse is an automatic suspect? I’ve seen it on “Law & Order,” so don’t argue with me.  It’s the first person the cops go to.  And not for information like, “You married this person, you must have tried to protect them, what might you know of this crime?” but more like, “Say, where were you?”  Someone hated this person enough to shoot them, stab them, rip their face off and make a throw pillow out of it— surely it was the person who also married them.  That’s the reasoning.  That’s the LAW.  The person who promised to love, honor, and cherish this chalk outline—they’re most likely behind this, it’s obvious motive.   The clear conclusion:  Marriage makes you a murderer.   You go in sweet and doe-eyed, all in love and having no idea how long forever can feel like on any given day, and you come out a felon.  You go in hoping for a white picket fence, and you come out strapped to Snoop Dogg on a chain gang.  Weddings should be stopped.  Marriage is murder school.

Again, not bitter.  Virulent, maybe.  Or just getting blisters from hanging onto this ski handle.

Did I mention that after I left my husband, he asked me to buy him a car?   Yeah.   A whole car.  Very sweetly, he asked.  Politely, I declined.  Then he reasoned, “What?  We were going to get me a new car if we stayed together; I don’t see why you wouldn’t still get me one just because we’re breaking up.”  Really?  You don’t?  Hm, then I’m not sure where to start explaining it to you.  Perhaps I should begin by teaching you the English language, then the culture, then manners, then move on to common sense and basic reasoning.

Okay, maybe I’m a little bitter.  Isn’t that part of it? 

I remember the moment it was over for me.  A thousand moments led up to it and they all blend together in a years-long haze.  But the moment I was done was clear.

We went to marital counseling.   That’s the thing married couples do right before they break up.  I’ve never heard of it keeping anybody together, but I do recommend it.  It makes you feel like you tried.

The therapist asked, “Laura, how’s it going for you?”  I don’t feel listened to.  I tell him what I want and need and he says yes, totally, he was just thinking that and he’s glad we talked.  Then I give time for the changes to kick in and nothing changes.  And it goes on like that, always.  Am I invisible?  Why aren’t I heard?  I feel fucking crazy!!

“Okay, Michael, how are things for you?”  I feel good about where we are.  Laura just got a great job, we’re going to buy a house.   I’m excited about where we’re headed.

What?!

I screamed.  Not like I screamed a sentence or word.  I screamed a scream.  A primal sound that still resonates somewhere over Simi Valley.  I screamed like Molly Ringwald in “Sixteen Candles” when she heard her friend’s brother paid a dollar to see her underwear.  I screamed a scream approaching Jamie Lee Curtis in “Halloween.” 

But we’re not done; that wasn’t the moment.  I’m no quitter.

Pan back to Michael as the therapist asks, “Michael, did you hear what Laura said?”  Oh, she just does that sometimes. 

That’s the moment.  When I realized he never heard me, just agreed and dismissed.  That’s when I got just enough metaphorical water up my nose and dropped the ski thingy I’d been clutching for so long.

We parted amicably, like friends.  Well, like that friend you had in high school that you don’t see anymore, don’t really miss, but wish them well.  I mean, you did spend four years together.

He started dating utilizing match.com, and excitedly invited me to check his profile:  blackpanther88.  Of course I didn’t.  Until I did, of course.  It was the usual lies about how adventurous and exciting you are that are on every profile, but what caught my eye were the pictures he used.  I guess he felt like he looked really good at our wedding, because THOSE ARE THE PICTURES HE USED.  ON HIS DATING PROFILE!  Him in a tux in front of the stained glass window in front of the CHURCH WHERE I GREW UP.  Him about to MARRY ME.  Him JUST ENGAGED to me.  I was skillfully cropped out, of course.  Just remnants of marital shoulder and finger.  These are the pictures he’s choosing to put up online to try to trick some new woman into liking him.  I glared at the screen, stunned.  I took half of these pictures of him myself.  Then, all I could think was, “Damn, I’m still doing everything for this dude.”

I realized I hadn’t totally let go.  I was still dragging behind the boat trying to choke out one last gasp of “That’s not fair!” but my throat was full of water and no one could hear me but Aquaman.  And he didn’t care; he’s got enough to think about.  I let go.  For realz.

So, here I am, two years later, fully surrendered, a little sunburned, but happily floating behind the boat, knowing it will come back around for me.   In the mean time, does anyone know the number of that cute boy in the OP shorts?