Of men and white horses...

I should get out more. With men. That was the counsellor’s advice this week. Go out and meet men, she said. In her opinion, I am perfectly justified, and indeed morally entitled to enter into relationships with other men. Other than the one I married, that is.

Yes, she said. Get out and about and meet men. Do stuff with them. Precisely what stuff and how much stuff, she didn’t say. She didn’t go as far as the Merry Widow had; she didn’t say “The way to get over a man is to get under another one” but I got the drift.

Certainly, I would like nothing better than to have Prince Charming’s (older) brother rock up on a white horse and bedazzle me with wit and flowers.  I do go out, a lot.  But somehow never seem to meet men who appeal as a romantic partner.  And you never see one trotting up the road  on a white horse, either. The guys who do ride horses round town - well let’s just say, they couldn’t be more unsuitable. Might be better to change the white horse requirement – better yet, delete it.

There are people who have a list of requirements; i.e. he must have x, y, z, live in A, B, C. All very practical. All about materiality. I can’t be that prescriptive. I know we all have types we are subconsciously attracted to or something like that. But for me it’s very simple. I just want Prince Charming.  Some one who is kind, gentle, smart, fun and doesn't take class A drugs. See? Simple.

The counsellor asked what I was doing about moving on and meeting someone else. The trouble is, I haven’t moved on. Nor can I until the divorce, really. I’ve always behaved honourably; when I was single and when married. Never sought solace outside the relationship. Never broke my vows, never cheated, never crossed the line.  You’re either single/divorced (therefore unattached and free) or you’re married /separated (attached and semi-detached).  I don’t believe you can ever achieve your happiness at the expense of someone else’s. I think it’s wrong.

There have been times over the long years when I thought I would actually die from loneliness; that my body would physically turn to stone. W.B. Yeats in his poem says it best; “Too long a period of mourning can make a stone of the heart.”   I’ve had my heart broken; twice. That’s more than enough times. So I’m torn; one part of me wishes, really wishes, to meet someone with whom to have a loving relationship of affection and companionship, a supportive and encouraging partner. The other part fears that that will never happen, that too much time has passed. A gremlin sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear- mutters something about getting older, lacking confidence, too much to ask, what if… But – one of the reasons I am getting divorced is to make a clean break, to leave myself free and open to the possibility of a new relationship, yes?  I silence the gremlin with the words of the counsellor; “You’re very smart, very attractive, you have a figure a nineteen year old would envy and you’re full of fun. Why wouldn’t you meet someone?”  So I shall ask the Universe to send me the right one, and hope that I will be able to dismantle the barricades I built around myself when I meet him. Since he won’t be on a white horse or wearing a suit of armour, it would be difficult for him to jump the walls otherwise…

How are y'all?

I don't know what anyone else thinks, but I think that divorce is  something that you crawl through, fall through, feel like an alien through and anything else besides. It's not something I wanted or ever envisaged happening to me. I got married in a church, felt it was a spiritual commitment, serious stuff,  all the rest. I dislike the word divorce; consider it an  ugly word, an ugly thing. Which is not to say that there are situations which need to be sorted out, fast.

A church annulment is an option; an expensive, other option. I'd have to do that on my own, pay for it myself.  It ain't cheap, although it leaves one free to marry again in a Catholic church, should one wish to do so. Not on the radar at the moment...if ever.

I met someone I hadn't seen in years. He was divorced. Well, he said, have you gotten over the shame of being  the first person in your family to get divorced? I was floored.  I don't know why, I couldn't reply. There should be  no shame or guilt, surely?  For my part, I know I did everything I could, but yes, I hate to say the D word. I really do.

Some  bit of me still believes in love, romance and happy ever after. Maybe that's foolish, romantic. Unrealistic. You'll think I should have copped on by now. But  I still think what we all  need is someone who is there. Just there, but absolutely there. With proper, man size hugs. That's an important part of men's work.  No agendas, just the proper application of man size, wrap around hugs.

 So now that the big stuff is getting sorted, allegedly,  where do I go from here? I don't know. I wish that I could say that I had it all sorted out but I don't. I have no idea.

Tempus doesn't fugit...it comes and goes like the tide.

Tempus doesn’t fugit…

It’s not easy to try and live each day as it comes, be always in the mindful moment, when inside you feel you exist in a state of suspension. Waiting out waiting time. Wondering how you will feel when D Day finally comes. It’s an awful feeling, this perception forcing itself on you that you are living a split life in two dimensions. One dimension of ordinariness, work, shopping, ironing, the daily tasks that make up so much of time.  A second dimension of frozen terror, wondering what the future has in store and how everything will turn out. Never, ever sure that any action is the right one, exactly the right thing to do. Hoping for the best, reciting mantras, prayers and mindful exhortations morning till night, lying in bed still reciting them while the worm of worry uncoils itself in your gut again and you know you face another sleepless night. In those circumstances it’s easy to add wine to supper, to find yourself with the chardonnay and crisps rather than the cocoa and toast. Surfing the web, the social media, seeing if there is anyone up and on Facebook at two in the morning. The only friend up at that time is a new father, preparing the 2 am feed, and he’s in no condition to chat!

Mentally climbing up one wall, crossing the ceiling and coming back down another wall is not conducive to restful sleep. Camomile tea, orange blossom tea, cocoa and wine are not cutting it. Some one suggested relaxing in a hot bath, surrounded by candles, so…

Bringing the sea back home….

One of my birthday presents was a large fancy jar of seaweed powder which allegedly had magical soothing, relaxing and rejuvenating properties. According to the label, you could make a paste of it with almond or grape oil and that would work wonders for your face. Or you could tip it into the bath and after a minimum soak time of 15-20 minutes you would arise like Venus from the waves, only more relaxed. Probably more wrinkled as well.

Not having grape, almond or any other kind of fruit oil, I opted for the latter.  Poured it liberally into the hot water – and started coughing from the cloud of greeny grey dust that arose. Never mind, in I climbed and lay back. The water was not green, as I had anticipated.  It was bog brown.  Not having my watch on in the bath, I wouldn’t know when 15 minutes would have elapsed so I had to count the time in my head. On, two, three, four seconds…When my mind wandered and I lost my count, I gave up.

Wrapped in a fluffy bath towel, I pulled the plug and watched the water gurgle down the drain. The bath itself looked like the Liffey at low tide, except without the rusty bicycles and supermarket trollies. Rivulets of clear water streaked the boggy brown residue on the bottom. The sides of the bath carried a high tide mark. The bathroom smelled like Galway Bay with the tide out. Oh my. Still, it must have done me no end of good.

Later, at a session of my Writing Circle, I took off my jacket and sat bare armed in the warm room. One of my writing colleagues asked if I’d been away on holiday. “You’ve a great colour” she said.

“No, I haven’t been away since last summer, plus I always wear Factor 50 as I just burn”, I said. Mystified, I glanced down at my arms; they were a fetching shade of light mahogany.  The penny dropped; it wasn’t just the bath that had been dyed brown.  All I could hope for was that at least I didn’t smell like Galway Bay when the tide is out.