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.

Good Relations...

In the interests of maintaining good relations despite gritted teeth and howling gales, myself and He who shall be nameless played Bridge together. Nothing untoward was said during the evening, but as we left I was handed  two pages of Bridge "homework"... They are now filed behind the microwave, along side the cook book my sister gave me as a Christmas present. I  wouldn't dream of reading that either.

Frequent Breaks are good for you...

“The only way to cope with ongoing stress is to take frequent breaks”

(Divorce-directed Selfie Book#11)

“Let’s cycle the greenway” the Sister said. “It’ll do us good. Peace and quiet, nice hotel, fresh air”- and before I could say “bicycle clip” she’d booked us a few days in a Co. Mayo hotel conveniently positioned right beside the greenway. I borrowed rainproof leggings from my brother-in-law; we booked bicycles on the internet and drove west. The hotel was lovely, one of those old fashioned hotels which had catered for travelling salesmen in the days before online purchasing. Consequently, they had single rooms which were indeed single; mine was a small attic room which looked out over the latticed roof of the hotel and on out across the Atlantic. I stood at the window admiring the sea view, and watching the considerate farmer who appeared to be taking his cows for a stroll along the beach. Some of the cows were paddling in the sea. Cows chilling out…

Down to Reception I waddled, dressed for the weather; Tee-shirt, cardigan, fleece, gilet, rain jacket. Tracksuit bottoms, the brother-in-law’s rainproof trousers, sneakers. Bike helmet. Wool gloves under waterproof mittens. Bottle of water. Camera. Mobile ‘phone in case of emergencies.

The Bike Man was waiting in drizzling rain outside the hotel. Yaay!! The start of two days freewheeling along the converted railway track, with only the voices of the birds, cows and sheep breaking the silence. We signed the contracts taking full responsibility for the behaviour of the bikes, took possession of them and wheeled them through the gate and onto the track. “Let’s head west, let’s do the leg from Mulrany to Achill today. That bit of the Greenway runs along the coast” said the Sister. Oh I do love to be beside the seaside; this was going to be blissful. Tranquil. Nerve-mending. Up on the bikes and off we pedalled. Five minutes later I was lying on the track, tangled up in the bicycle and the brother-in-law’s trousers, crying. We had come to the first of the gates intended to keep humans and bovines safely apart. While I was trying to negotiate it, an overlong (for me) trouser leg became caught in the spokes, the bike stopped with a jerk and I went flying off it. The unforgiving cinder track cut my left shin, knee, hip and wrist to ribbons. Blood was seeping through the layers of clothing. Every bit of me was hurting.  We weren’t ten minutes out and I was already a mess. There really was blood on the track. Sis patiently untangled it all and helped me up. “We’ll go on” I said. “I’m all right”. I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to spoil her day. On we went, while the sea curled in on our right and farmland and heather were dewed by the soft rain on our left.  Every movement caused the cuts to abrade over and over again, rubbed by the torn lining of my tracksuit bottoms while my hip was rubbed raw by the waistband.  I began to wonder if I’d broken my wrist, not just sprained it. Eventually the pain got the better of me and we turned back before reaching Achill.

Back at the hotel, I enquired if there were a pharmacy nearby; showed some of my wounds to the Receptionist. Before I could sink into one of the comfortable sofas dotted about the foyer, there was an offer of tea and a chef appeared with the hotel’s First Aid Kit, kept in the kitchen apparently. It was the size of a small suitcase, leading me to wonder if cooking is a terribly dangerous occupation. I chose dressings and antiseptic, limped up to my attic room and dressed my wounds.

We met for dinner; I had brought a white lace dress for our formal dining. I hadn’t intended to accessorise it with cuts and bruises but, well, never mind. After dinner we wandered down the one street in the village. We found a little pub all right, where over the course of the evening an entente cordiale was established with some of the locals-the few remaining locals who hadn’t been forced to emigrate due to the recession, that is.  A retired engineer informed me that he owned one of the offshore islands and four hundred acres locally. Plus a lovely house.  “That’s lovely” I said, “what a beautiful part of the country you live in”. Ah, but it turned out he was lonely…the Sister was in fits.

Back at the hotel the two of us sat in front of a log fire and had a few nightcaps. Such a lovely, cosy hotel…I slept well in my little room, worn out by fresh air, extreme cycling and lots of food and drink. Stiff, bruised and bandaged, I saddled up on Day 2 and we headed east. A much harder cycle today but rewarded with beautiful views, rivers and bridges, weak sunshine with only the chattering of the birds and the nattering of the Sister disturbing the silence. I walked the bike through the gates and stiles. I walked part of the track as well, vowing to hire an electric bike next time…We got as far as Newport before surrendering and taxiing back to Mulrany. A dip in the hotel pool and a session in the hot tub worked wonders. All that was needed now was a nap before dinner. More lovely seafood, more drinks in front of the open fire and our last night ended.

Morning came knocking at the attic window. Banging, in fact. The bruises were now turning lovely autumnal colours. The left knee was bending a little bit. Time to go home. We headed for Dublin, the Sister clutching the hotel’s recipe for scones and homemade jam. I’m not a tea and scones person, more Chardonnay and crisps, but the afternoon teas in the hotel had been historic and I knew the Sister would be well able to replicate the stuff.

Back in work, the boss asked how I’d enjoyed my trip.  It was wonderful, I said, apart from the scars and sure, maybe they’ll fade with time.

Yes, frequent breaks…but preferably not bones.

 So off I go. ..to distraction heigh ho...

I have a stalker. Or do I? What do you do or think when a person from your writing group wants to know every detail of your life,such as "Why are you taking an  antibiotic? Where do you live? What's your address?