Chapter 83: Miami

RING… RING… RING…

The phone trembles in my hand as my mind drifts back to a vivid scene 15 years ago, stuck on an indelible repeat loop in my brain.

She is SOBBING. Her makeup lies in ruins, zombie pools in the hollows beneath her swollen eyes. 

 I am relentless. You simply can’t get divorced in the church! 

And that’s how I rationalize the cruel abandonment of my very best friend back in Chapter 22, left alone to pick up the pieces by herself after we, the church, assisted in shattering her life by making a conscious and deliberate decision: if she proceeded with her divorce, we would be leaving her behind on the way to the Promised Land. 

She did proceed. I parroted the company line, squawking loudly in the church bandwagon parade, making sure she was properly snubbed. 

God, I was awful. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, ummm….it’s Monica.”

Dead silence. I should hang up, this was a terrible idea. But then she pipes up, “Oh my Goodness! It’s so wonderful to hear from you!”, her instantly familiar Texan drawl bringing the warmest of greetings. I didn’t expect this. It’s absolutely not what I deserve. I instantly choke up at her unwarranted kindness. 

I suck. 

We pick up the conversation like separated twins, rapid fire catching up, how have you been, what are you up to, how is DX… then I drop the bomb and blurt out my confession.

 I, too…am now divorced. 

This time there is a much, much longer pause. 

I interrupt the silence with tearful apologies. I’m babbling, I’m sputtering. Fifteen years ago, I stood in her house, a statue of self-righteous judgment, condemning her for getting divorced. 

Fifteen years later, I’m hanging my head in shame, understanding the suffering I put her through all too well. At the time, of course, I was absolutely convinced I was doing the right thing, admonishing the sinful to a better path, stern and unforgiving, carrying out what I saw as God’s justice, a ruthless nun in a habit of spiked steel. But I was wrong, ohhhh I was so, so wrong. 

And my dear priceless friend, who could have been my trusty sidekick for the last decade and a half, is full of forgiveness I absolutely do not deserve. 

She forgives the person I had become in the church, willing to sacrifice our relationship for an ideology. She forgives the ridiculous conversation I had with her that windblown October evening I sat in her living room, trying unsuccessfully to convince her not to leave her husband. She even forgives me having abandoned her at a time she needed support so desperately. Her abundant forgiveness makes me feel even worse for what I did. In spite of my groveling, we still have that instant friend chemistry, and we connect, and catch up, and talk, and laugh, but there is a deep regret in my soul. We missed out on years together, years that were wasted because I was so adamant that divorce was WRONG WRONG ALWAYS WRONG. I still can’t believe I did this to her. 

 I had to fix this wrong in order to proceed with my life. I can’t just ignore wrongdoing on my part, not if I’m going to be the kind of person I want to be. I can’t just do the fun stuff, I need to actually be a better person. And I absolutely needed to address 

this grave error from my past. After the conversation, and the tears, and reconnection, I’m mentally exhausted. I need to run, let the wind blow through my mind.

KOOSH KOOSH KOOSH my feet crunch through piles of leaves, excited about my renewed relationship with a treasured friend, and ready to proceed with this new life direction.

I, having abandoned traditional shoes for those ridiculous neanderthal Sasquatch-ass Vibram FiveFinger toe shoes, am dancing through piles of leaves as I run, and with every leave I crunch, I plan. In my determination to create my own path, I want to go places I’ve never been, do things I’ve never done. But that’s just stuff. I also want to repair relationships, mend fences, maintain boundaries, develop a strong inner circle, figure out who the hell I wanna be when I grow up. Transform my life. 

ALONE. 

I read Jack Canfield. I read Robert Kiyosaki. I read Napoleon Hill, Jim Rohn, and allow Martha Beck to help me find my North Star. I read about improving your luck (yes, you absolutely can) and being Codependent No More (thank you, Melody Beattie!) I read about self-discipline (should probably review, heh heh) and the Year of Yes. I read about how to get what you want, and I read about how to protect it from The Sociopath Next Door (would have saved me a ton of pain in my church days). I read about The Secret, What the Bleep? and the art of visualization. I read about how to keep it all organized with minimalism and cute little Marie Kondo, whose ideas are great, but wayyy too time consuming for this  free spirit. I skip Martha Stewart, I have no patience for making homemade fig ganache in a pan forged in my backyard. 

And when I say I go on a binge of self recreation, I mean I have almost 400 titles in my Audible account, not including the many more I lost track of in my Scribd subscription. 

I am a mad scientist over my life, counter laden with beakers and Bunsen burners, what’s she gonna make now? And I’m stirring it all together like a crazy lady, frizzed Einstein hair bobbing as I excitedly mix this with that, checking chemical recipes to see what will react with what. 

 I watch enough Ted talks and Tony Robbins videos to make Eeyore reimagine himself a white stallion. 

But this is going to take more than just listening, it’s going to take action. 

I search for life-transformative experiences. I mine the stories of the successful for what helped them have that elusive Eureka! moment that changed everything. And I discover a common thread for many. 

There are quite a few who went to some rather heavy duty training with Tony Robbins.  

Yeah, yeah, I know. Go ahead and roll your eyes before you continue, but it is a fact. 

It could have been a different conference, the important thing was the action I was putting into developing myself as a person. And his conference involves walking on hot coals. COOL! Just the kind of crazy shit this wacko mad life-scientist is seeking. I want drastic, bombastic, crazy nuclear-ass life fusion right now. 

I sign up for the stupidly expensive conference. In Miami. I’ve never flown alone, and I’ve never been to Florida. Fuck it, this is how you develop new skills. 

 I’m going to make a stop in North Carolina to visit my wonderful long-lost best friend who just forgave me, an in-person reconnect that has me so excited I’m finding it difficult to sleep. 

On the way back, I’m going to visit new friends in Naples. 

Sorry, Eric Carmen, you were totally wrong. Being All By Myself can be pretty fucking awesome.  Hey, If you’re great company, why wouldn’t you want to be with you? I’m gonna rewrite that ballad as a rock song jamming electric guitars ALL BYYYY MYSEELLF….I wanna be…. ALLL BYYY MYSELLLLFF cuz I’m PRETTY COOOOOLL!!!!

And if you’re not great company, then why can’t you change yourself until you are? 

But every good decision will be challenged, and challenged it is. 

As I’ve been developing the musician facet of my life, I have been communicating with all of the musicians I can, and in the melee, I manage to hone in on one who lives a couple hours away. He’s a fascinating person, and an exceptional musician. We decide to meet for coffee.

I should have known better.  We talk, we connect, we laugh about all things music, and we decide we will top off this great conversation with dinner, which is just down the street. 

It’s pouring outside. 

We run from awning to awning in the dumping rain.  Abruptly, he grabs my hand and spins me around, and in a yellowed page ripped straight out of a cheesy Harlequin Romance, he kisses me in the rain. 

And just like that, Lastdude is born.