“PINKY TUSCADERO!”

huh?

“PINKY TUSCADERO!!”

My eyes inquire the packed bar, but I can’t identify the disembodied catcaller. I had just entered the room, and someone is already calling me out for the red hair, leather jacket and tough attitude I may have developed by now.

I am totally flattered.

But I’m also sick to death of men. I’m here with my girlfriend, who has something she needs to get off her chest, and have no interest in talking to whomever the caller is in this pile of mildly inebriated humanity. We grab the last two barstools to discover the loudmouth is just two chairs away from me, and has no intention whatsoever in abandoning pursuit. He doesn’t disappoint. My ears are assaulted by a tireless litany of flattery from this experienced charmer. He has all the right words. I once again observe a connection between how strong my desire is not to meet anyone and how determined they are to get my number.

He switches places with the guy next to me.

Now he’s REALLY working me over. Total Chatty Cathy. He won’t shut up. My girl time sails out the window, an inflatable floaty boat tossed aside by his massive tidal wave of flattery. This guy is smoooooth. A flourish of compliments pour out as gallons of water over the Niagara. He pays for our drinks. He touches my shoulder. He attempts to set up my friend with a pal of his. In spite of him clearly being a player, I’m intrigued. He’s animated and lively, full of good times energy. I decide I like this crazy character. Fundude. Nice conversation, he charms, I sass, he flatters, I deflect in a social game of tennis. We are having a lively back-and-forth that may end in love… or Love. My girlfriend who definitely needs to unload about something is getting frustrated. We decide on an exit strategy to another bar so we can have some privacy. Fundude uses a tactic to get my number, the old take a selfie and what’s your number so I can send it to you game. I allow it, one point to FunDude.

We leave, and almost immediately DING a text.

DING

DING DING …..DING DING DING

We are mere blocks down the road.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDING

Fundude. On every single one.

We enter the foyer of the other bar and my phone rings.

“WHAAAAAT??”

Fundude: “Come back!”

“NO!”

“Why not?”

…I am finally starting to figure this game out, and I don’t immediately give in.

“If you want to see me, you need to take me out on a proper date.”

“Okay, tomorrow night?”

Sheesh, impatient much?

He got me. The following night, I hobble into a fancy restaurant on stiletto boots a drag queen couldn’t endure (good thing they had valet parking because I have a thirty foot limit in these) and find Fundude waiting at this swanky bar over a bottle of chilled hundred dollar champagne. Amazing the difference when you make guys work a bit harder. Ohh, do I ever wish I had figured this one out sooner. It turns out to be a great idea, you want to see me, you set up a proper date. Not ME, YOU. It’s amazing how this simple rule filters out the bottom feeders. If you can’t be at least that much of a priority, do you really want this guy anyway? I recall some quote about training the men you are with by how respond to them. I am learning…slowly, but still learning.

We order some overexpensive appetizers constructed of animals I didn’t know were food, and commence talking about… well, everything. FunDude has a high energy personality, and the conversation is bubbling over just like the Veuve Clicquot we sip from the delicate flutes. He’s just as outgoing as I am, and we are having a blast. I think I’m finally starting to get dating down right. Music is starting to bump in from next door, he orders another bottle of champagne, and I am getting very toasty…Are you going to think less of me if I confess he ordered a third? I’m not sure what wooden leg he’s tossing them down, but those bottles are getting emptied pretty fast.

People are meandering in from the party next door… It’s a wedding!

I say I’ve always wanted to crash one.

He says let’s do it.

In a flash we are stumbling to the front of the crowded wedding hall, all the way up to the DJ setup. This is a little bit naughty, and a lot awesome. We commence tearing up the dance floor. He’s a nut.

Some of the legitimately invited receptionees are starting to glare at us. This isn’t a super huge wedding, and we are clearly not properly dressed for this highly formal room. It’s not quite as bad as hillbillies in Hilton Head, but close. We make our exit just before we are kindly requested to depart. The second we’re out the door, he throws me down on the couch in the hotel lobby, right in front of God and everyone, and starts kissing me. The concierge looks a bit sweaty.

Oh, this is great fun, although I’m kind of telling him that maybe we shouldn’t be getting all hot and heavy in a hotel lobby… he reluctantly concurs and stops enough for us to return to the bar. We reunite with our champagne flutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him attempt to put something in his mouth, but it falls to the floor. I glance at the floor. Tic Tac? Gum? A little blue diamond lies forgotten on the ground. Hmmm…

Days later I figure it out. My date just dropped his Viagra.

Optimist.

But I don’t go home with him that night, and I’m guessing he had a long 4 hours to endure. We go out again, and this time return to his beautiful lake house, and I make him dinner. It feels wonderful to cook for someone again. We burn popcorn and watch old beloved black and white TV shows. I enjoy his company a great deal. I meet tons of people he knows, he’s a social butterfly and has a stadium’s worth of friends and acquaintances. He’s a bit over the top, which I kinda love, having made the hard pendulum swing away from all things proper, he is just PERFECT. But I’m once again sailing over the in-love cliff without first checking my parachute, thinking there’s more here than there really is. Oh, Monica. Will you ever get this right?

A message dings in again as I’m at work later one night, won’t I please come meet him? He texts meet him at Scores. Another date at a fancy restaurant? Who serves food this late? I’m excited and speed out the minute I’m done, following my GPS directions. I pull up to an odd building with a blaringly obvious lack of windows. I know YOU can see this coming, but Ex Church Girl cannot, and I just go waltzing in, and nearly walk into a pair of jiggling breasts.

The bobbling boobies belong to a girl toppling on platform shoes that make my stilettos look like Crocs. She has an elaborate thong on, stuffed with bills. “Uhhhhmm. sorry…” I stammer as a fawn in the headlights, not a single solitary clue as to how to navigate this alien landscape. Do I have to pay her? Which crevice do I stuff my money in? Does a credit card get swiped through the front cleavage or the rear? Clueless as an ape in an algebra class, I stare at her blankly (Eyes up here, honey.).

I jump at the hand touching my shoulder. FunDude. Laughing his ass off at seeing my complete bewilderment and naivete. Ha, ha, very funny. He steers me past undulating females on poles, past drooling men, past fists holding dollars that are about to get rather warm Allindeed, over to the table he has for himself and his friends. I go sit down, and watch the show. Well, here’s one place I thought I’d never be. But I’m a curious type, and in this scorched-earth of a life I’m burning down and replacing, I decide I’ll go with it and enjoy the wonders of the human body. Fuck it. There are some rather beautiful strippers here, but the one who stands out to me is a cute topless girl in glasses, slightly overweight, and to me she seems to grab the most attention, in kind of a girl-next-door manner. Yes, I tipped her. I felt bad for her, though, She seemed quite drunk, and as I learned in my marriage, it’s never a good sign if you have to get drunk in order to do something. I’m sure she receives unwanted touch all the time, something I am adamantly against.

But who knows? I have to believe this is a power play for at least some of these women… you wanna look at these honey? You’ll have to pay… and you most definitely do not get to touch.

I debate it in my mind long after the evening is over, never coming to any resolution. And I have to go back to Tiny Town to work for a few days, and thoughts of all things pink fade from my mind as I make hay. The last day, FunDude can’t wait to see me. But I’m getting back to Big Suburb rather late… and my phone DINGs away once again as he texts HURRY!

I tear into the parking lot of the popular place he’s at, but it’s later Sunday night, and the place is a total ghost town, the only spirits remaining residing in bottles lining the shelves. I skootch in breathless on my thrown-on pumps. There are only two left in the bar, and my stomach is a sudden plunge of lead.

FunDude reaches out to me, but I’m not looking at him, I’m boggling at who’s next to him…

“Honey!! This is my best friend SportsDude.”

Age is just a number.

Bullshit.

I get the idea. One’s essence, a personality, remains intact throughout life whether eight or eighty, but I approach the bench and argue the case that age does indeed matter. I am nearing a half century myself, and it is window clear…chronological differences are more than skin deep. Remember whale breasted gold digger Anna Nicole Smith, twentysomething with her 90-year old liver spotted, crumpled, barely alive husband? (This guy had a massive smile in every photo with her, I have to believe he was pretty smug about not leaving her in his will.) Come on. What could they possibly have in common? What did they have to talk about other than gee, ma’am y’all are doing a great job removing your clothes, here’s fifty bucks and a Werther’s. He’s from the era of peanut brittle and sarsparilla, she’s trashy MTV and Sour Patch Kids. Two different worlds, and no one dances the Charleston listening to Eminem. If I strayed too far from my generational lane, I either was snickering at the high-waisted grandpa jeans and Velcro shoes, or didn’t want to get Snapchat and talk about shows I only know about because of my college age offspring. Inconveniently, however, people don’t have their ages tattooed on their foreheads (there’s probably some idiot out there who does, but for the sake of my story I’m ignoring that moron), so I am playing a very unsure game of blind man’s bluff.

Especially in a dimly lit bar with a band playing at jet engine volume.

It’s the Tiny Town bar crowd. I ironically thank God for not recognizing anyone from my church days. They must be home polishing their Bible figurines, or memorizing their verses, or judging meth heads at the dollar store, or whatever it is religious folk do in their free time, I no longer know. After my latest experiences with the cheat brigade, I’m just enjoying being out with my girlfriends. Safe, free, fun.

Alone.

I’m starting to think being single is rather underrated.

It was so short lived.

“MONICA there’s someone I want you to meet! ” In Tiny Town?

Ew.

“Come on, he’s a great guy!” Business owner, faithful, good person…The way she’s extolling his virtues, this guy is neck in neck with Mother Teresa for canonization. Saint GoodDude.

Alright, FINE. I reluctantly agree to first contact, and as my girlfriend leads me through a sea of faces in this overpacked bar, GoodDude’s smile emerges from the crowd.

We start chatting and my friend dips back into the ocean of sardines in this tiny can of a room, purposely leaving me alone with Gooddude. Setting me up. I happily discover we have a lot in common. He’s a musician, and plays guitar on the worship team at one of the churches in which I used to lead with DX. Pastor South’s church, the first of the three in which we were the music ministers. It’s been over twenty years since we served at that church, this is digging into archives and is nothing this guy would remember.

We talk about church. We talk about business. We talk about life. He’s holding me. He’s kissing me. He’s holding my hands in his. We dance. Amazing. Have I finally met someone who has an ounce of moral fiber, some ethics, some virtue? Not like those awful cheaters. This is awesome. I am once again jumping wayy ahead in my mind, already wondering how I’ll make a long distance relationship work, my usual mistake of getting overly excited when I barely know a guy. I’m rounding the last bend on the racetrack and the guy isn’t even yet in the parking lot, and the GPS directed him to a random warehouse miles away anyway.

I duck into the restroom, be right back!

My lipsticked self returns, but GoodDude is nowhere to be found. I don’t see him anywhe-wait! There he is! At the bar. Back turned toward me, animatedly speaking to a cute blonde. What the hell? Did I do something wrong? What’s going on? I try to catch his eye, but he is very obviously avoiding me.

Weird.

I’m bewildered. What derailed this?? The train with GoodDude has very clearly gone off the rails and lies useless on its side, wheels frantically spinning but going nowhere. Dead in the water, no idea why. I hang with my friends and write it off as just another guy that didn’t work.

Until morning.

Phone.

Gravel hello.

“Umm… Monica”

My friend sounds almost… sheepish? The voice informs me Good Dude is Churchlady’s son.

Memories of a rather dowdy dark-haired church lady I used to spend time with a million years ago flood into my mind. We are driving to a homeschool event together, her with her bun on her head, me with its matching twin, in her well used minivan because that’s what all of us church wives drove. A quintessential ruined-carpet vehicle with a diorama of Fruit by the Foot wrappers, expired juice boxes, and enough petrified French fries to create a miniature shrine to fast food under every seat. And the image of me, barely twenty and playing proper Church Lady myself in my long skirt and three-quarter length sleeve overly modest top, off to whatever revival, or rummage sale, or big grocery store in a bigger city, while her young children played in the back. Strange. I acted like I was in my forties when I was in my twenties, now I am living out what you normally do in your twenties in my forties. Oh wait…

her young children…

Her YOUNG CHILDREN

Her BOYS!

And with a shock of revelation from the dusty annals in the attic of my brain, I suddenly realize GoodDude is a helluva lot younger than I thought he was.

He stopped talking to me because he figured out who I was!! I was a church lady who was friends with his mom and knew him when he was just a little kid. He was the towheaded tot annoying us from the back seat. He was a little kid goofing off in the back of the church while I was leading worship. He is 25, not in his early forties like I had guessed.

I feel ridiculous. I’m over twenty years his senior. But… most embarrassingly, I had spent quite a bit of time with his mom back in the day. Did I babysit him?

AUUUUUGGHHH!!!

So awkward.

It is my final venture out in Tiny Town.

Oh, but it’s not over, nope, not at all.

Another close friend in Tiny Town’s son is getting married. In like two weeks. I’m very close to her, and wouldn’t miss out on it for the world.

Guess who’s standing up in the wedding, mere weeks after this embarrassment of an interaction?

Yep.

And I sit there, mortified as I watch couple after couple in their wedding uniforms sashay slowly and deliberately down the center aisle of the church. And there he is, GoodDude, one in a row of now rather obviously nubile twentysomethings filing obediently down the main drag to join their clones on the sides of the altar.

I can see his mom on the other side of the church.

SO awkward.

I leave the reception early, another lesson learned.

Back in Big Suburb, I order a glass of wine at my bad-date respite house of spirits, and sit and consider.

“Heyy, there,…” A guy sidles into the chair next to mine, and places his hand on the back of the chair.

I slowly turn my head and a nice looking, but very young, kid is looking at me like I’m dinner.

I am done with this.

“How old even are you?”

Twenty three.

One year older than my son. He could be my son’s roommate.

“I’m 48.” I state flatly.

“That’s just a number.” …and follows this statement with a litany of virtues that are supposed to prove there is something here worth pursuing.

OH, honey. If you only knew. The life that I’ve seen, the years lived, the children borne, the opportunities lost, the death of loved ones, all that goes into a near half-century of life.

I just want to give him a Caprisun and a granola bar and put him on the schoolbus to toddle on home.

I smack Andrew Jackson on the counter. He glares back at me, age appropriate with his salt and pepper hair. Hey, honey, come here often? But that’s not who I meet. I meet an electrician who turns out to be 28. I meet another gentleman who not only turns out to be 26, but after a polite no, I am approached in the same place by an older gentleman, divorced, mid conversation, Yeah, my son’s here too. Gestures to the end of the bar, and heyyy, there’s the 26 yr old. It’s his son. He reaches out and waves with a big, bright smile. I have to laugh.

Does everyone know everyone out here?

I’m about to discover that Big Suburb…ain’t so big.

my head is a cannonball

POUND POUND POUND

a thousand miniature determined railroad workers simultaneously hammer spikes into my skull. Overachievers.

where am I? what time is it?

my ears are the first to come back online

A shower is running, drops hitting tile like thunder in my blighted head. Eyes next. I barely manage to hoist the hundred pound sandbags that are my eyelids. White ceiling, unfamiliar covers, remarkably soft pillows. Can I take these home?

Hotel room!

Crushdude. I was out with Crushdude. Hot guy, dinner, delightful, flirty conversation, catching up on all things since sixth grade…

Mostly blank after the brimming glass of wine. A bit here, a piece there.

I panic. I have to work today. What time is it? I have to find my phone…where the hell is my phone?! I fail at locating mine, though Crushdude’s lies face down on the hotel room desk. I pick it up and look at the screen.

Still early. Thank God.

Glowing beneath the time, damning letters glare up at me. A missed message notification from a woman… her first name, LITERALLY THE WORD SOULMATE, followed by his last name.

This fucker is married.

Not just married, he is cheating on his SOULMATE.

The chorus of overenthusiastic railroad workers pounding away at my head is joined by a symphony of pipefitters overfilling my stomach with something rancid.

I feel so stupid. How in the exact hell had I not figured this out?? We have been talking for months. I bumble around the room, locating clothing, hey, look! A phone… I’m a drunken one-legged sailor in a futile search for the elusive treasure of everything that belongs to me. He emerges from the shower, all clean sweetness and cuddles. I am feeling decidedly un-cuddly. I coolly request he take me home immediately, and barely say anything on the way. My brain is still a bowl of mashed potatoes with too much gravy. Neurons are attempting to swim across but are stuck drowning in starchy muck. They send out a desperate SOS. I need coffee like a junkie waiting impatiently at the door of the methadone clinic. At my apartment, I stumble as best as I can out of the car and slam the door. I would love to say I ran up the stairs, but I more dragged my leaden ass skywards, hands pulling on railings, wondering how in the hell I was going to be capable of anything at all. I get a frantic message from Crushdude, “what’s wrong?” to which I respond flatly “you’re married” to which he responds “I’m sorry” which really isn’t enough. Not enough at all.

My mind reels.

I collapse on my couch at home contemplating my apparent bout of amnesia. Doesn’t amnesia only happen in soap operas? If so, which one am I in? Cuz I can’t remember, ha ha. Was I drugged? I recall the strange smirk that weird bartender gave me as he slid the overfull glass across the bar. Did he slip me something? Did Crushdude? Someone else? Did I drink so much I can’t remember? That’s not normal for me at all… my brain swims in a murky dead sea of self doubt and did-this-really-just-happen paralysis. I call and confront him. What the hell, Crushdude, did you ruphy me? He is shocked, and extremely disappointed I don’t remember anything. Apparently the night was very meaningful for him, in spite of me not being his Soulmate, and he thought it was spectacular for me as well. He said during my fated last glass of wine, I ran off to the bathroom and was in there an eternity, or at least long enough that he was getting worried. So was it someone else in the bar? Or in the bathroom? Was I reading War and Peace? And who the hell ever pours wine up to the rim, anyway?

I know, I know. You’re supposed to tell someone where you’re going, have someone call up and check on you on a first date, complete with some bogus emergency to excuse you out of Bad Dateville. But I had known Crushdude since I was a kid, so I didn’t tell anyone, and something sketchy happened that night, but I have no idea exactly what, and no way to prove it.

Dating is turning out to be the most buyer-beware situation I’ve ever encountered.

I stalk out Crushdude’s Facebook, wondering how in the hell I could have missed the fact that he’s married. Oh, okay. It’s not that obvious, you have to scroll through a sidebar to see his relationships, but by golly, she sure is there. I had never looked because just as with Cheaterdude, I assume if you are hitting on me, You. Are. Single. but… I. Am. Wrong.

I’m in the Wild Wild West and anything goes, but I lack a gun, sunscreen, and know-how.

I look at the pictures on his page. Crushdude skiing. Crushdude hamming it up with friends in Aspen. Crushdude posing with a surfboard on a paradise evoking beach. He looks single and ready to mingle, hot singles near you! I return to the sidebar and click on his wife’s name.

Oh no.

Oh, no, no, NO!

I was hoping to see similarly isolated pictures, evidence that they were splitting up, at least thinking about getting divorced, but her profile picture is of their WEDDING. My stomach is in my throat as I look at picture after picture on her wall of the two of them together in a wide variety of activities. This woman really, really loves him. I feel sick.

Do I call her? Do I tear down her entire world? Ruin this woman’s life?

I am running a volleyball game in my head SMACK you have to tell her SMACK you can’t it will destroy her world SMACK it’s your responsiblility SMACK she’s never going to believe you MISS how can he have put me in this position??! and the ball goes bouncing away and vanishes. There are no possible winners in the game today, thank you for playing, folks.

In my frantic could-I-have-figured-this-out recap, I unearth a few red flags I was apparently too colorblind to identify. Didn’t he invariably contact me during business hours, 8 to 5, Monday through Friday? I did find this a bit strange. I retrace my steps and dammit, YES that’s exactly the case. He was always calling and messaging me from work, where his wife wouldn’t catch him, where the eyes of his Soulmate wouldn’t be able to incite some well-deserved guilt.

I evilly consider sending him masses of incriminating messages during dinnertime, just to make him sweat it out. Phone calls coming in while she’s placing the meatloaf on the table. Damning evidence during the time of day he is most likely to be busted by his wife.

Red flags. He never invited me to see him…only wanted to meet at a third-party location…no selfies when we’re out…I really need to get better at this.

Even after this experience, I am sandbagged by married men. A music pal of mine starts working on some things with me, expresses interest, kisses me one night on my deck underneath the moonlight, then confesses he doesn’t love his wife anymore. Wife? You never mentioned a wife, isn’t it a bit late once you’ve already kissed a girl? Another music pal takes me out twice before I discover he already has a girlfriend.

I start believing I must be the only person left who doesn’t think this is okay, who likes that good old fashioned one guy, one woman construct. I’m the Omega Man of the monogamous relationship. Anyone out there still believe in this? Hellooooo???

I consider the lack of faithfulness as I drive back to Tiny Town to visit my few faithful friends in that community, when my pals from my church days decide Monica needs to go out dancing in this town where almost everyone knows what happened at church.

What could possibly go wrong?

I foolishly continue on my merry path to destruction, gleefully fiddling away while Rome burns. A continued pendulum ride to the dark side, a doomed Miley Cyrus hanging on a massive steel weight swinging hard away from everything I know into the void of… who knows? The Cavern of Iniquity? Night of the Living Dead Relationship? Creature from the Bad Boyfriend Lagoon? I seem determined to leap from the overly restrictive world I knew into a foreign land I know pathetically little about, and against which I have no defense, no armor, innocent pink skin entering the domain of wolves. I am the street-stupid kid thinking the guy in the creepy white windowless van has some pretty delicious looking candy, may I try some, sir? Really? You’re going to let me have a piece?

I date Mellodude. He’s a very nice person, and super laid back, ohhhh, wait, that’s because he has a daily marijuana habit. I was hoping I was actually witty enough to make him laugh that hard.

Nope, it’s not me.

Mellodude would be an awesome catch for someone who’s riding the 4:20 express, but as hard as I tried in college, I was never much of a ganja girl. I don’t even own a tie-dye anything, or a drug rug. Mary Jane, if you’re reading this, I’d be happy to introduce you. He’s a sweet, just slightly skunky guy. You’d LOVE him.

I am attempting to get accustomed to going out by myself. I do love the myriad of humanity I invariably meet. I go to a new place and square my shoulders, boldly forcing my feet forward in spite of the fact I know almost no one in my new community, head artificially held high as I forge ahead into the unknown. I look a bit… umm… unattached, and a small group invites me in and introduces me to a serially single gentleman, good looking and very nice. Great! He asks for my number and everything! We go on a few dates. Hmmm… All he talks about is sports. Sportballdude. Yes, I’m kinda bored at his one-track conversation, yes, I am seeing more red flags than China, but I persist in thinking mayyyyybe he’s The One. Yeah, for me, the massive sports fan. The one who thinks Tom Brady was the missing sibling from the 70’s sitcom, and a touchdown happens when you round home plate.

In between brain-numbing sports stories, he works overtime convincing me to go back to his place. I want a relationship, not a fling, so I tell him I will only go if he behaves. He is either deaf, or has a severe short-term memory loss from being hit in the head by the Sportball one too many times, because he is pushing me wayy too hard. I know, you savvier girls are reading this oh my god you dummy this guy only wants one thing and it ain’t getting a ring on your finger but I am bound and determined to make this work. He’s good enough, and I am doing a big settle. Until the last date where he goes wayy too far. I allow too much, and realize I’m giving too much of myself away. Come on, the guy is a certified douchebag. I’m out. I actually storm out of his apartment late at night with a few nasty comments. Maybe I’m being a douchebag, too.

Then I find out Sportsdude is Mellodude’s brother. Hmmm…. wonder if this is going to come back to haunt me…. But I’m in Big Suburb, what could possibly go wrong? These people don’t…know each other…do they??

Hey, wait a minute…

I suppose you’re waiting to hear about my long lost grade school friend who had a crush on me?

All right, I’ve kept you in suspense long enough. Yes, my friend from elementary school has contacted me, and done so in a rather memorable manner, extolling his long-hidden twelve-year old feelings in flowery terms that would make even the coldest of hearts swoon in abandon.

All I remember about elementary school is being a total nerd (my mom pinned my Ritalin to my shirt in a tiny yellow envelope. I know she was doing her best, but jeez Mom…). Some resourceful sixth grade prodigy even wrote a spectacularly insulting song about me with at least six totally obscene verses. WOW! Catholic school is AWESOME! If you’re not getting bullied by the other kids, you’re getting bullied by the nuns, and I was in trouble more often than not, being the hyper child who could only sit as still as a hummingbird on crack. I was one of those kids who can still remember what crayons and paste taste like (That delicious wintergreen paste was a solid 10/10. The crayons lacked flavor, body, and texture. Aaand smelling rubber cement makes you feel funny.).

Our school was a bizarre mix of future trust-fund adults, shallow as a cookie sheet from never having to do anything unpleasant; uppercrust kids whose parents already had their futures set up for them and were just tipping the first domino with the last landing in the Ivy League, but also kids who were so bad their parents had put them in Catholic school out of desperation to get them to PLEASE LAWD let them be rehabilitated at last. My overly innocent interaction with these last-chance, Hail-Mary Pass back-seat dwellers initiated my first experiences with weed, cigarettes, and the REALLY naughty words.

I never really had a group, I confused the Sorting Hat of elementary school, and it short-circuited. It had no clue what to do with me, so I just kind of floated about, a lost beach inflatable bobbing alone on the waves, ignored and forgotten, though I had a smattering of people I would talk to, and CrushDude was one of them.

I had no idea ANYONE was interested in even being friends with me, and here CrushDude is, contacting me thirtysome years later, and confessing at last his long-hidden desires. I had always liked him, and I was absolutely delighted that he had a crush on me! Really? REALLY?! This is awesome! We social media’d through the day and into the evening. He was saying the most romantic things, and I was getting excited, although there was just a tiiiinny detail in the fact that he lived pretty far away. Fine, whatever, I’ll sort that out later, but I was having a great time catching up with CrushDude.

After a couple months of this banter, he plans on coming to town. He’s from exotic Big City. Would I like to have dinner?

Hell YES, I’d like to have dinner!!

I am superexcited about this, and create the usual mountain of clothing on my bed, castoffs deemed not worthy enough for a hot date and piled up for putting away at a much later date. Like 2025.

He picks me up in his Bentley, looking super cool and kind of as I remember, only hotter. We are laughing and catching up on the last few decades, and pull into a top-notch restaurant. I feel stupidly proud as we pull in. I am flushed with excitement. We order wine, and giggle over the silliness of our youth. We exchange endless stories, and languish hours over dinner, neither of us wanting to call an end to the time together. This is an endless trip stuck on a Memory Lane roundabout, and neither one of us wants to exit the loop.

He finally does call for the bill, and we reluctantly depart the restaurant.

This is where I should have just gone home. I have this tendency to overextend things…

We stop out for a nightcap, I had two drinks over our lengthy dinner, what’s the harm?

We are at a bar I’m not very familiar with, off the beaten path and a bit on the sketchy side. I run to the ladies room, and when I return, the bartender slides a glass of ice cold destiny across the bar.

It is filled to the rim. Like a martini. Almost spilling over. This is a glass of wine.

Weird.

I turn to Dude and, laughing, ask if he’s trying to get me drunk. I take a sip, leaning over so I don’t spill.

It’s the last thing I recall.

Is that…?

no… can’t be…

Wait, yes, definitely…

YES those are absolutely hair plugs! How did I not notice before?

Fine tufts of hair randomly arranged-though not quite random enough-dot the scalp of the man who is kissing me. This guy is pushing a bit too hard. I back off to chat some more. He is having none of that and pulls me back in. Third date. Uh oh. He wants me to go back to his hotel, this entrepreneur businessman from New York who asked for my number, called and followed up, and has taken me out the last three times he’s been in town. He’s entertaining the idea of getting a place here in Big Suburb. Wide eyed, naive Monica is fascinated! New York? What’s that like? He also has a place in Tampa. He wants me to go to Florida with him. I’ve never even been to Florida, this sounds sooo exciting! He’s ten years older than me, but somehow seems a decade beyond even that.

OldDude. I would love to tell you his real name. One of those names like Lloyd or Vernon. Eugene. Elmer. Orville. You get the idea. Somehow I feel like the added years will grant more maturity. They will not.

Come on, Monica, you are settling! But I’m intrigued. I’m in love with the idea of being in love, and I keep attempting to cram ill-fitting men into my life, using hammer and saw when necessary. But he is getting wayyy too pushy with me, and when he comments that he doesn’t really know me, it throws a dash of cold reality water into my face and I wake up to what’s really happening here. Of course he doesn’t know me, he has no interest in knowing me. Oh, he for sure wants my ass on that cheap hotel mattress, but he doesn’t want ME. He wants to use me. I am a plaything, a toy. He wants to lavish his money on me. Gifts, fine dining, travel, luxury, in exchange for my body. A trophy, mere arm decoration to use when he’s in town.

I’ve figured out his game.

Suddenly he is terribly ugly to me, and I stare at his dull gray eyes, and the smug expression on his stupid face, remembering the warning from my friend the night I met him: He’s looking at you like a wolf looks at a lamb. I don’t trust him. And a sprout of wisdom rears its head at last, and now I don’t trust him either. I concoct an excuse, exit his car and enter mine, and take the lonely drive home once again, another bait cut from its line, another awful idea for a partner averted. I am SO not good at this. I’m hunting with a comical Elmer Fudd gun, and every time I pull the trigger, BOOM! I’m standing there looking dazed, head blasted and hair on fire.

I go straight to the bar. This bartender has seen me before. She takes one look at my exhausted expression and knows. Here’s your glass of consolation wine, honey. I start coming here after my invariably shitty dates, and lament endlessly to the bartender, who has her own set of sordid tales. She knows the blank stare that comes from the searching, searching, searching, only to come up empty handed, a fisherman headed home with a stinky bucket of nothing. I reek of hairspray, expensive lotion, perfume, and unmet expectations. This is just saaaaad. I plugged all my nickels into the casino of men, and continue pulling the handle, even though I’m down fifty thousand, I just keep pulling, pulling, pulling one more time, lessee what I get! Cherries, lemon, grapes, dammit! Just one more time…

While I’m lamenting why I’m dating anyone at all, a tall man with a head of dark curls sidles up to me and starts to chat. He’s smart, sassy, and incredibly good looking. We have a fun conversation going, he is a trial attorney in nearby Big City. He’s fun and flirty, he puts his arm around me as we chat. He leans over and starts kissing me, and that’s when his friend sitting next to him suddenly blurts out a handful of rather significant words.

He’s married. Wife and two kids.

ASSHOLE!

Suddenly an image pops into my mind… a woman sits on a couch reading to her children, then dutifully putting them to bed, then sitting alone fantasizing over a Danielle Steele bodice ripper while her husband is “working late” because, honey, I’m an attorney! It’s a very important job, and my clients are counting on me… did I mention I’m important? What bullshit text messages is he sending her, or is he simply ignoring her, messages blinking into the darkness of his pocket, unopened? What story is he telling his bride as he gets stumbling drunk and kisses women at the bar? What does he say directly to her face while looking in her eyes? Does she suspect? Does she know?

And instantly I wonder how long he would have dragged this out had his friend not been there to rat him out. I thought I was someone special here. I’m not special at all, he’s just a cheap philanderer.

I turn to him and chastise him. “WHY didn’t you tell me you were married?”

Him, now rather drunk and starting to slur: “You shoulda athked me if I wurzs marrrrrd.”

He starts chewing me out for not asking.

Plaintiff: Why didn’t I ask him? The nerve of me to assume he was single just because he approached me!

Yep. He’s pissed at me because I didn’t ask HIM if he was married.

The defense speaks: “If I am in a bar, and you are approaching me, I assume you are single, because WHY would you hit on someone if you’re already married?” I want to add unless you’re a complete asshole but we’re already having an argument in a bar. An argument with a trial attorney. Not likely to go well for me, even though he is soooo obviously wrong. I don’t care. I have a strong feeling this is what he does all day. Ambulance chasing, showboating, misogynistic miserable excuse for a human being. Wealthy, aristocratic asshat unworthy of being the sole of a cheap shoe. Yeah, I’m pissed, all right. My eyes blaze with anger that he would do this to his family.

The chief witness (bartender) gets wind of this and jumps in: “I believe I’m getting a fifty dollar tip.” Cheaterdude: “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Witness: “I know your wife. I’ve seen you here with your family.”

Oh my GOD this guy is openly kissing another woman in a place he takes his family??!! I can’t wrap my brain around this. And I feel even worse for this woman. How many people around her know that her husband is a piece of shit player with wandering eyes, hands, and I’m sure other parts, too?

The gavel comes down with a BANG and the surprise beneficiary of the final judgment is the bartender, who does indeed get her fifty dollars of hush money.

And I leave and go home, pissed at humanity. People using others, people betraying promises.

My phone dings.

Monica! I’m so glad I found you! Remember me? I’ve had a crush on you since grade school.

Oh wow! it’s my old friend from grade school! Wait, he had a crush on me? Seriously? I was such a nerd! I didn’t think anyone liked me in grade school, much less had a crush! Really? A crush?! Ohhh… this is exciting!

My faith in men is about to get much, much worse.

He leans in to kiss me. I turn away.

His lips land awkwardly on my cheek, having missed their mark. Steeeerike out. I awkwardly mumble good night, bolt to my car, slam the door, and peel into the darkness like flying monkeys are snapping at my bumper, this latest online date having crashed into a smoldering pile of twisted wreckage.

My mind is racing. Why. Am. I. Even doing this?? There is something in my psyche that just can’t seem to let go of the idea of a Significant Other. A million lyrics to a billion songs march through my head belting out romantic choruses “All I need is the air that I breathe, and to love you”…”You’re my first, my last, my everything” …”Ooooooooooo, I love you”…”My… endless love”…”Gonna give you every inch of my love”…okay, maybe not that last one, but you get the point. From birth I have been drowned in this idea of the Magical Significant Other who would ride in on his white stallion and save the day, carrying me over the threshold into a loving, fulfilling relationship enduring blissfully through our twilight years, when he pushes me on a swing in the park like a picture on a Hallmark card bearing a pile of Pollyannish rhyming couplets. I am just positive this guy is out there somewhere. And I MUST hunt him down. The absence of Prepdude has left a void, and boy oh boy am I trying to fill it. I feel like a puzzle with just one laaaaast piece missing, and so far the stray earring, poker chip and toy llama I have stuffed into the empty space are a terrible fit, but I never cease trying to cram them in there anyway and pretend it totally works. It does not.

Oh, I do keep picking up random items to try, though, yessss, I try.

I meet guys from so far out of town, it’s absurd to even entertain the idea. I meet chefs, middle managers, and guys who fib their way through the whole interaction. Oddly, I meet lots of bikers. I had gone through most of my life hardly knowing any, who knew there were so many motorcycles out there? Where y’all been hiding at, BikerDudes? They’re like seagulls on the remains of a Happy Meal. And I am clueless. And green. And honestly, kind of needy. Oh, this is a fabulous distraction from the things in my life I really should be working on. I’m not pursuing anything of real value, just searching for someone to paste over my mountain of denial. I have long-neglected personal dreams, and they sit like a forgotten model ship I had really wanted once, pieces still hopelessly trapped in their flashing, all dusty in the corner of the spare bedroom… remember me?? You were created to make me into something… but I ignore the nagging. I am making a classic mistake of trying to anchor my life to another person without finding myself first, without putting my own dreams first. I’m putting everything on hold to screw around with trying to find The Guy. But it’s my mistake to make, and dammit I’m gonna mistake the hell out of this.

Back to the circus.

I meet a guy who’s surprisingly the same height as me. (I’m a shrimp. Sawed off. Cue Randy Newman song.) Many women are hung up on height, and I have to say I really don’t give a shit. Actually, it is weird for me when a guy is too tall. There, I said it. I was once introduced to a guy who wanted to dance, him seated at a table with a group. Why, yes! I would love to dance and he stands up and OH NOOoooo… a record scratches to a halt in my brain because I am navel height to him and now it’s just awkward. I’ll be hugging private bits if we get close. Ew.

Anyway, back to Shawtydude, who is incredibly attractive, and has a confident, fun personality. We are having a surprisingly nice conversation, but we get on the topic of religion, and he turns into Jimmy Swaggart. Puh-raizze the Lawd and he is suddenly preaching at me all of the things I had already heard for years in the church. What I had mistaken for confidence was a big fat pile of arrogance. He’s practically shouting The Truth at me like I’m a fucking moron. In my head I see him standing on the table shaking his fist as I cower beneath him, SCREAMING AT ME IN ALL CAPS until I accept that he knows ohhh so much more than me!

I pitch my cards on the table.

I’m out.

Been there, done that, choked to death on the T-shirt.

It was dry. Do not recommend.

I’m hard at work, swiping, swiping, swiping. It’s a part time job. This is stupid, it’s taking up a jackass amount of time and after a few months, I’m burned out and ready to take a break from this revolving door of bullshit.

But wait!

Nice looking guy. Military service. Sense of humor, good background. I swipe right … and I’m suddenly chatting with GIDude. We have a miraculously decent conversation, and he invites me to meet at a pub.

I walk in, carefully made up, clothing curated to perfection… yeah, this really is too much damn work. He catches my eye,… ohhh, he is cute! He invites me to sit. We are on the corner of the bar and our knees touch. Neither one of us make an attempt to move. It’s nice, and there’s a clear attraction. This could be good!

Blinded by the white flash of initial chemistry, I miss a major red flag. He is instantly critical of… well, just about everything. What’s this stupid show at the bar. This bartender sucks. Why doesn’t this place have better wine? But he’s soooo cute! I feel enough connection to continue, so I tolerate the ranting. He seems a bit stuck in military life. My parents proudly served their country by playing golf nearly every day, so I really can’t relate, but I streeeeetch that tidbit of chemistry and paste it over his negativity and the fact that we have so little in common. I’m spreading cold butter over toast. It’s way too stiff and pulls and tears the bread to destruction, and is nowhere near melting, but DAMMIT I am determined to eat it!

As we go to leave, he invites me into his truck for a minute to warm up. Why, I thought you’d never ask. I’m too dense to know why he’s inviting me into the car. I reach up for the oh shit handles and hoist myself into the oversize cab of this beast of a pickup truck. Yeahh, could have predicted this is what he would drive. We are there chatting for a hot minute, then he reaches over to kiss me. Awkwardly, and consistent with this testosterone-built hulk of a machine, there is a massive console between us bearing the pile of junk that exists in most cars. He suddenly flips the entire console back HARD, and sunglasses, maps (wait, people still have paper maps?) water bottles, breath mints and whatever else was on there all yard-sale into the back seat in a forgotten mess. He kisses me… I am breathless. This must be The Guy. I am mentally picking out what my bridesmaids are going to wear when he pulls away to say good night. I breeze out filled with a sense of destiny, another fool sailing off to bed on a cloud of romantic fantasy.

But he doesn’t call back.

What? Why?? Didn’t he have fun? Weren’t we perfect.. okay well maybe not perfect, but we had chemistry…I mean, nothing in common but we can make it work… can’t we?? It doesn’t matter, because he never calls.

but wait, a month later, he does. And a month after that. I’m always available, always ready to go.

I’m being stupid.

This pasttime of many singles is called breadcrumbing, and I’m totally falling for it. He is stringing me along, feeding me juuuuust enough so I don’t stop responding. Along with most likely a whole string of other women. Every time he intermittently texts, I excitedly jump right back into this conversation of futility, back into his mire of negativity. One day I receive a text that simply said this sucks and I just start laughing, I don’t even look at the name. Of course, it’s GIDude.

I know. You’re reading this like Monica why are you wasting your time on this bonehead and, yes, that is what my steadily growing group of friends in Big Suburb wonders. Is it because I was lonely? Had lost so much? Was starting all over and desperate for communication, for affirmation? Who knows? All I know is I am following textbook Dumb Behaviour for Women, and I’m checking off every box like a dutiful clueless girl. Check, check, check. I’m hanging my hat on a guy who barely messages me, is undoubtedly dating a whole pool of women, and is so negative if I ever actually got to spend any significant time with him, I’d want to throw him out the window anyway. On the sixth story. On a cruise ship. And make sure it does the loonng sloooow turn to run over that complaining mouth twice.

I am lamenting all of this with a friend at a posh bar with overpriced wine that has me feeling my handbag wasn’t near expensive enough.

A businessman pulls up the stool next to mine…

I. AM. TERRIFIED.

They all want to talk to me.

Hello. Hi. How are you doing today. Whatcha up to.

All 178 of them, some holding a fish, some sitting on a motorcycle (is that supposed to attract or repel me?), some hugging their dog, some selfies under a bare lightbulb… have you guessed yet?

Online dating, yayy! So, how’d I wind up here?

I had been with Prepdude for a couple of years. Was I in love with him? Absolutely. Was there chemistry? Oh my, yes! Yet though I view chemistry as essential to any intimate relationship, otherwise they’re just a roommate, I am discovering that relying on chemistry alone is baking bread with flour as the only ingredient. The flour is essential, but pretty bad by itself. I went into dating like a blind man at a strip show, and as I gain my sea legs, I’m realizing this is going to be more difficult than I thought.

Prepdude was so not present I wound up calling him my insignificant other. He just really wasn’t all that involved… did you notice he wasn’t around much through these alone chapters? I finally bowed out after a weekend of broken commitments in which I finally realized he wasn’t ever really going to be there for me. Absentee boyfriend. My friends pointed this out, but it took me only forever to catch on to the very obvious fact that he was not going to change, and if I wanted someone more involved, I was going to have to exit and find someone else.

It was extremely painful to leave Prepdude. I was totally in love. I had my own stupid motives as well, though. I think I stayed an extra six months just because his eyes were so blue. During the time I was dating him, I kept having this feeling…I would hear this little voice (Listen to the little voice, it’s usually right. Unless you’re Ted Bundy. Then, please don’t.) and the little voice would say you will leave when you’re strong enough. I loved him, but it really was very one sided. I would give him 100% attention while he played on his phone. His friends would even apologize to me for his behavior at times, but I was so fresh out of 23 years of training in submission and obedience, I allowed it to continue. I finally had a wake-up call when I became extremely sick, and he became extremely absent. I had been there for him for everything, anything he wanted, and there I sat, alone in a hospital bed with my daughter, who was worried sick. It was a dump of icy cold water over my head that woke me up to the fact that he was never going to be involved, and would probably complain the whole time if-God forbid-he ever had to push my wheelchair. So, although it hurt, and cost me my friendships with his friends, I finally ended it.

Square one, alone again.

I’m in Big Suburb and know very few people.

But my laptop saves the day by broadcasting there are Hot Singles Near Me! captioned underneath a hot guy who most definitely does not exist. I’m going to go meet some awesome people! My dream guy is just a click away…right??

Enter the three-ring circus that is online dating. Holy shitshow. I decide to throw myself out there, and boyohboy you better have your full metal armor on, because you’re going to have to dodge some serious shrapnel. I signed up, hopped on, and started rifling through hundreds of profiles chosen for me, none of whom look anywhere near an appropriate match, all while fielding my inbox and feeling bad that I’m not messaging everyone back promptly or nicely enough. Their algorithms are bullshit. Somewhere in a basement, a morbidly obese software engineer is cackling his ass off at all of us fools as he mismatches away with his Cheeto fingers, I’m sure of it.

Help.

As I swipe miles to the left, I notice men weirdly always have some sort of prop in their profile picture. A boat, a fish, a motorcycle, a car, a dog… my observation being that they often have put more time into their hobby than they have into themselves. Women’s profiles tend to have beautiful pictures that may or may not accurately represent the actual person, but men’s tend to simply be… well, bad. Someone is missing out on a business opportunity by not having a service that improves men’s profile pictures. I have seen filthy shirts, lying inappropriately on stained sheets, mugshot-worthy expressions, bathroom selfies in which you can see the toilet (HAWT!) and shirtless bodies that should have remained shirted. I have seen them crack fart jokes and say totally obscene things in their profile. I have seen usernames like seekingsoulmate69 and goodtimesXXX.

Sooo many opportunities to say no, so little time. And LOTS of them get pissed at you no matter how gently or nicely you try to tell them you’re not interested. If you get past the initial conversation, and decide you’d like to meet, it’s on to CCapp, which not every state has, but tells you their state court record. CCapp makes for some great bedtime stories, some of them downright scary. But some make it through my hack filtering system, and I’m down to a guy who sounds like a gem. I’ve struck gold!!

It’s My First Online Date!

I should have known something was wrong when I couldn’t find a single solitary picture of him other than his profile pic. I searched all over the corners of the internet, not a single picture. LinkedIn, Google, whatever. This guy doesn’t exist.

And I, being the complete dumbass at this that I am, sign up for dinner with this guy. DINNER. With someone I’ve never met. I choose an Italian restaurant I love, and am all excited, his profile is sooo interesting, and I carefully put myself together and get ready to go. I am dressed to the nines and have great expectations.

The minute I see him, I know this is going to be a loooooong night. Not only does he not look anything like his profile pic (HOW?!) but there is an immediate repel that I would call the opposite of chemistry.

And I’m in for dinner.

My mind scrambles to figure out how in OKCupid Hell I’m going to survive the next two hours.

WHYYYYY oh WHYYY did I sign up for dinner?!

and right then and there, I design a new app in my head, ParkBenchDate.com. Here’s how it works. You meet at a parkbench, walk by and decide if you even want to sit down next to the person, and if you like you can sit down and know within thirty seconds if you want to share any space with them at all.

If you have never online dated, this sounds cruel. If you have, you are already searching to see if this app exists.

We go through the full Monty of awkward dinner, apps, wine for me (he doesn’t drink, and I wonder if he thinks I’m a lush for doing so, but honestly if I had something stronger at this point I probably would have taken it. Like strychnine, perhaps.) and he has loooong tales about his fabulous online role playing game experiences. This guy is 55 and he spends his evenings online gaming with kids half his age. He knows more about his characters than he does about actual social interaction, and I start seeing why this gem is yet to be claimed. It occurs to me the right woman for this guy is probably RPG’ing another character in his game. He should date there. Oh, wait, I forgot about the half his age bit. Oops. Never mind. Or at least mention in his profile that this is his main outlet for having fun, because I, a gregarious extrovert, would be gnawing my limbs off to get out of this conversation, except that this is a really great Italian restaurant and I’m not giving up on this red sauce and Chianti just yet. There’s a reason the guy in the Godfather took the cannoli. This food is the only thing keeping me from sticking my fork in my brain. Red sauce indeed.

Internally, I have a growing panic. Oh my GOD what if he tries to kiss me? I don’t want to hurt his feelings… what do I say to him? The level of awkward is hanging steadily between 8.5 and 9, and I am beginning to understand why people complain so much about dating.

Mercifully, time passes and the evening ends. He merely hugs me, dodged that bullet. We exchange messages later, and he isn’t feeling it either. Pshew. And now I know not to sign up for a full dinner with someone I haven’t already met.

I am alone and discouraged. I sort through my Inbox. left, left, left…RIGHT.

Helllooooooo, GIDude.

My dad is gone.

I am more alone than I thought.

It’s a strange feeling when you lose both parents, now the buck stops here, and there is no plan B. It feels a bit like the rug is pulled out. Like I got on the wrong bus and it just sailed off a cliff and I”m looking out the window OHHH SHIT watching the oncoming trees, shrubs, and not so soft ground growing larger…Houston, we have a problem.

There is a beautiful memorial service, and my dad’s friends get up and say all sorts of wonderful things, a lot of which… I never knew.

And I regret. Oh my God, do I regret.

All of that time I spent in ministry, my family, my brothers, sisters, Mom, Dad, friends who weren’t in the church, took a back seat to my supposedly noble venture. Maybe you have friends like this, who are involved in church and you never really see them because they do everything with their “church family”. Or maybe you don’t have friends like this because… well, are those really friends? Aren’t they just people you know who are perpetually at church? I know I was. I imagine my family thought I was a bit nuts. And they weren’t wrong. I was disconnected from regular society, from the non-churchgoing folks. The heathen. Sinners. Infidels. Ordinary people who didn’t spend every spare moment trying to save the world.

As I listen to my dad’s close friends explain what a wonderful person he was, I have so many questions.

I want to ask him about these things his friends are talking about. I want to know about his time in Chicago on the board of surgeons, of growing up poor and working his way through medical school. I want to know the techniques he invented in surgery, want to know about the hysterically off-color roast they threw him when he left to start his own practice, about his upbringing and parents and family farm and ohh, the everything and I want to ask my mom a bunch of questions too, but I CAN’T BECAUSE THEY ARE GONE. And it’s too late. There isn’t a minute more I can spend with either one of my beloved parents. The regret is a swirling pool and I am sinking. Glistening visions of so many things I could have done with them shimmer by in the water over my head, but it is all out of reach, all untouchable now that they are gone.

And I make a commitment.

Never again will I let anything get in the way of me and my family. Never again will I put off saying the loving things that should be said while people are still with us. Never again will I put off seeing someone until it is too late. For those of you who have heard me say relationships are paramount, this is why. It’s because with my parents, I totally fucked up and lost a mountain of opportunity to be closer, to communicate more, to give and receive love and support, to be more connected, to give back some of the care they gave me in my childhood…

The karmic lesson in how totally alone I feel now is not lost on me. I need to learn to be there for people. I need to learn to make my friends and family important again.

I need to get my shit together.

After the relocation, and the loss, I’m not doing so hot. Many days I am too depressed to get out of bed, and I am dead weight in the mornings, unable to get up. I’m finding it very difficult to move at all. Around noon, I usually find the energy to force my legs off the mattress and onto the floor, one foot connecting then two, bend those legs and push up that ever-heavier body until it is standing at last. It’s embarrassing. I tell no one.

I feel paralyzed, but that’s not entirely true.

I blew up my life and now I’m searching for the right bricks to create a new foundation. Every day I (eventually) get up and work on my new life, picking through the rubble of my old life to find the good stuff I can still use. It’s a demented cha-cha dance of three-steps forward, two-steps back, extremely inefficient but it still totals forward, and I creep ahead dragging concrete blocks with me… one block, two… I pick up some furniture… three, four, five…I make my first real friend at work in Big Suburb…six, seven, eight… I meet some other high school parents… building a new life that has nothing to do with my old one.

Spring blends into summer mushes into fall morphs into winter, and gradually I am getting a little stronger. Every new client is a step, every time I drive somewhere I learn the area a tiny bit better, every person I meet is another connection. In spite of the lingering and oppressive dark blanket of depression, in spite of the grief and all I have lost, in spite of me not knowing what the hell I’m doing at all, I am somehow moving forward. I’m playing a complicated board game and the directions are in Swahili and half the cards are missing and the parts are made of ice and they’re rapidly melting and making a total mess of the board, yet my piece somehow inches ahead. It’s slow, and it’s the kind of forward like when you are watching a snail and he’s barely moving but then you look again after half an hour hey buddy, how’d you get all the way over there?

Because slow progress is progress nevertheless, and I’m still moving.

After all of the years of being told what to do, each day I’m gaining my independence. I’m getting stronger. I’m learning to take care of myself.

Aren’t ya wondering where Prepdude is?

I am a crumpled heap on the floor.

My nose is runny. No one can get me a Kleenex, no one can get me anything.

I am alone in a town in which I know not a single solitary person. Hellooooooo…(helloooo helllooooo hellooo)… I have no one to call for help, no family nearby, no friends.

I.

AM.

ALONE.

What have I done? Have I really dismantled my life to a complete void? I raise my head and look around me at the barren apartment, a ghost town relic of yesteryear in a 100 year old building. It’s pretty. Yeahh, pretty empty, ha. I don’t have shit. And I’m POSITIVE I should have taken the other apartment I checked out. This one has no neighbors, how will I ever meet anyone? Will my daughter and I be safe? Am I just a hermit now? This was stupid. I have just removed myself from all of my social life support. Beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. If I die, it will take a week before anyone knows I’m gone. I’m that random Jane Doe they only find because of the smell. I’m not sure who would even find me.

I am in full panic-attack mode, and there is no stopping the what-if train today. Whooot whooot! All abooooard! Here’s your list of destinations today:

What if I can’t find enough clients?
What if I can’t pay my bills?
What if I can’t take care of my daughter?
What if I don’t make any friends?
What if I just made the worst mistake in my life?
What if I just ruined everything?
And many, many more.
Including I am 100% positive I should have taken the other apartment.
I’m a loser. A fuckup. A horrible person. An infidel. A disappointment.
MONICA WHAT HAVE YOU DONE??!
And all of these negative thoughts swirl my brain farther and farther down the drain of depression, like these kind of thoughts always do, and just about the time I’m rounding the final cycle before I disappear down for the last time, my phone rings…

My beloved.

And we sure ain’t talking Prepdude. It’s my wonderful daughter. I wipe my face and answer.

“H…hello?” I’m trying to act like I haven’t totally crashed my mental grocery cart into a ditch, contents sprawling, eggs a broken Humpty Dumpty disaster on the pavement, but, well, it’s pretty obvious.

“Okay, Mom… what’s wrong?”

Shit. She’s onto me. I lose it.

“I…thi…ink I took…the wro…wroonng place. I should have ta-taken the other one!! That waa-as the riggght o-onne!” I sob. Pathetic.

Her response, practical and laser-focused like I’ll never be:

“Mom. If you had taken the other apartment, you’d be sitting on the floor there crying about how you should have taken this one.”

Well, damn.

Sage advice from a wizened 16 year old smacks me in the face, and I realize I’m just having a very human, very common response to drastic change. Second Guessing syndrome. Buyer’s remorse. Whatever. I made a choice, and it’s not right, or wrong, it’s simply a decision, and the usual little demons that come out when you try to change something are out doing their little Hades-dance around my head chanting you. were. wrong…YOU. WERE. WRONG!! though by now, I have changed so much of the everything about my life that I’m getting used to seeing their little critical faces dance by, their little ugly features twisted in disgust at my latest faux pas. Every day I wake up, they are at it again, and now it’s just like an old piece of furniture. I’m used to them. I just get up and do it anyway. Fuck ’em.

Which is a good thing, because I have some serious work to do. I start a business in Big Suburb, but it’s incredibly not busy, considering I’m starting with zero clients. I wind up driving back to Tiny Town three times a week to work at my old business, to make ends meet. I put 50,000 miles on my car that first year. I would have been better off just getting my CDL and driving a truck. But noooo, I insist on having this vision of creating an awesome life, but right now it is so undeveloped it just looks like an ugly larval mess. Haa, gross. Good thing this isn’t illustrated.

In the midst of this, and shortly after I move in to my spartan setting, Prepdude’s good friend has a wedding, and I am invited to the shower. She and her fiancee both have amazing jobs and do very well, they are combining two households into one, each already having their own house to sell. I check their registry. Oh, this is rich. I’m looking at crystal 300$ bowls for the lucky couple, and I don’t even have silverware yet. You know what? Here’s a question for you.

Why in chantilly lace hell do bridal showers still exist?

An archaic leftover from the 16th century (YES it backdates that far, I mean, I figured it was a relic but didn’t realize it would turn out to be practically prehistoric), the bridal shower was to be a starter set for the lucky (but are they?) couple in cases when the father of the bride hated the guy she was marrying and refused to provide a dowry. Yep, the whole tradition started because Dad thought your boyfriend’s kind of a dick. Then Hallmark kicked the whole shitshow up to Godzilla proportions, and made it so he could breathe fire directly into your wallet and burn up your funds in the name of family obligation. I mean, you HAVE to do it, right?? It is considered rude and gauche, (well, at least rude, since I don’t really know what gauche means) not to comply and provide some overpriced bauble or at least a healthy check, FOR WHAT EXACTLY?? You are buying a gift for the wedding. So, what the hell is this for? So you can waste an afternoon chatting with women you don’t know, playing games you don’t like, watching someone open gifts you didn’t want to buy? Isn’t it enough to go to the wedding??

Let’s get rid of this bullshit and replace it with a Divorce Shower.

NO ONE needs a fucking bridal shower. You are combining two incomes, quit pretending you need shit. You don’t.

You know who DOES need shit? The newly divorced! Dammit, THAT’s when you need the toaster. And a bed. And silverware. And towels. And pots, and pans,… aaaaand everything you just lost in the damn divorce. You just lost your house and half your income. Also, whatever it took to pay the lawyer, whatever maintenance, child support, etc you now have to fork over. You are getting, at best, half of every table, chair, power strip, Christmas decoration, napkin and roll of toilet paper.

So. I say we should get rid of bridal showers and replace them with divorce showers. At least half of y’all getting married are going to need them anyway. I guarantee you the parties would be wayyy more fun and entertaining, and Divorce Shower cake? Hell yeah, that’s when you need the extra calories, not when you’re trying to get your ass to wedge into your overdecorated white gown. That’s my plan, and if some of you business types who are better at this than I would like to write up a proposal to present to the Gods Who Control What Society Is Obligated To Do, that would be just peachy.

I return from said bullshit shower, kick off my weathered pumps, and rest for a minute on my floor. I really need to get some furniture.

A message is flashing on my phone.

My brother.

Uh oh.

“Turn your head to the side.”

The heat of the sun crosses my bare chest.

CLICK… CLICK CLICK…

One of my very best friends is a master photographer, and in my escalating care for my reclaimed body, I have decided to have a topless photo session. It’s awesome. It’s exhilarating. It’s empowering.

I feel incredibly beautiful. Ten out of ten. Two enthusiastic thumbs up. It was better than CATS.

No one besides the two of us has ever seen these pics, they are an ethereal work created by my artistic savant friend. Not smutty, neither lewd nor lascivious, these photographs capture my calm and content repose. She did an incredible job. After so many years of carefully and deliberately making sure everything was covered, of being practically ashamed to even be in possession of “naughty” bits, every shred of clothing that fell to the ground that day felt like a brick removed from my back, the overpoweringly heavy burden of rules finally being removed, one garment at a time. I am now free and proud of my body, I feel happy and comfortable in my own skin at last.

I’m learning to love myself, and doing so does include loving the vessel, the body inhabited.

Some of the teachings I was exposed to over my church years implied the idea of the naked body being somehow bad. The minute that darn female in the garden tasted forbidden fruit, innocence was ruined and they both had to Gilligan’s Island together some sort of outfit of leaves and twigs. One bite of bad apple, and your body is shameful and must be covered, for Pete’s sake! Worst case of food poisoning ever. It took too long for me to figure out that the real evil happens when you don’t protect and defend, and take pride in, and love… your own body. This vessel bearing the soul is a gift to us. It’s beautiful, you only get the one, and what you allow into it, whether it’s food or drink, or an undesired person in your space, affects all of it. Likewise, when you treat yourself well, appreciate yourself, love yourself, it spills over into the world around you. People know when you respect your own being. It breeds confidence, something everyone finds attractive, and has a natural magnetic effect. Yet many subconsciously learn not to respect themselves, by either not having autonomy and control over their own body, or being taught that their body is “dirty”.

Sexual deviants are often raised with very strict don’t-touch-yourself, your body is dirty rules. Bad things happen when you aren’t allowed to love yourself and this body you have been given. The whole picture becomes skewed. Most generally live out the beliefs they are taught, never questioning how it is affecting them, or why their psyche is damaged.

And yep, I’m gonna go there. I’m swinging that forbidden door and marching straight into the taboo topic room.

Folks, I’ve read it cover to cover, there is absolutely no teaching in the Bible against touching yourself. Ha. I’ve known it for years, and I’ve finally come out of the closet with the shoebox of AA driven toys and said it. Your body is yours to enjoy. I mean, maybe not in the parking lot of the local Krogers, but you get my point.

I think I may have lost a few of you for ten minutes.

Okay, back yet? Was it good for you? I’ll continue. I did learn to be proud of my body. I would stand in the mirror on a regular basis, naked, and tell myself I love you. And hug myself. All getting pieces of Monica back, all rebuilding the me I had lost.

I go to lingerie stores, and buy the sexiest, most flattering underthings I can find. Newsflash: Women buy beautiful underthings for themselves, far more so than for their significant other, I can say this pretty confidently because if one of the opposite persuasion happens to get to the point where they view said lingerie, it lasts about two seconds before being discarded. Now that I’ve started respecting my body, I want to decorate it. So much fun. And this is good, and healthy. Bad things happen when you don’t think of your body as an amazing gift for you to cherish and treasure, and take pride in. There’s a psychological concept called self-comfort, the ability to take care of oneself, to see that our own needs are met. Then we are not so needy, and become more caring to those around us. I’m learning.

In the midst of all this body-pride self discovery, Prepdude takes me skinny dipping. Okay, yeah, I know like 99.5% of you have already done this, but I had not. We find what we think is a remote part of Tiny Town, go a ways down an overgrown path that looks appropriately rarely traveled, and, leaving clothes on the shore, head into the cold running waves of the river. Oh, this is exciting!! The bottom is mucky, though, and I’m sinking up to my ankles. Visions of leeches clinging to intimate body parts fill my mind, and we both panic and flee for the shore. Mission aborted, we head back up the trail. As we are driving back from this attempt at a fun escapade, I realize the area we were in was on a daily canoe trip run, one of those where a busload of people paddle down the river in droves. It dawns on me that we almost became part of their itinerary, hey folks, to your left you see a loon, and on your right, naked homo sapiens in their wild habitat. Well. I guess that would have made their sightseeing a bit more exciting, but also would have landed us both a 400something fine for indecency, as well as a nice write up in the paper, according to my police officer friend. Oh, can you just imagine? The Tiny Town newspaper listing the name of the deposed worship leader and her illicit lover, now busted for public indecency?

I have GOT to get out of here.

I want my world to be bigger.

Every time I visit Prepdude in Big Suburb, the excitement of a place where no one knows me as a pastor’s wife calls my name a little louder. The area is adjacent to a major city, yet is beautiful and upscale. I bet I could have an amazing salon here.

I start researching the area. Turns out, there is a reason this area is so beautiful. It’s one of the wealthiest counties in the state. It is packed with lakes and beautifuI natural features, and loaded with parks and trails. I start researching schools, and discover eight of the top ten schools in the state are in this area. Wow.

My son is graduating and headed to college, closer to Big Suburb, and my daughter HATES Tiny Town. Then, I discover the tidbit that changes everything. They teach a very specific subject my daughter has always wanted to study. The minute I tell her, I can see her mentally packing her bags. This is my tipping point.

We are moving to Big Suburb.

I am nuts.

I only know Prepdude, his family, and a handful of his friends… do I dare even consider…do I dare even think about … moving? I have been in Tiny Town for 18 years. This would be a massive drastic change. Which is just what the doctor ordered. Or, I’m crazy. Take your pick.

Big Suburb has music venues. Big Suburb has every kind of store you can imagine. Big Suburb is freaking awesome!

I find a cute little apartment.

I rent a truck.

I watch Tiny Town get smaller, and smaller, and the single pixel in my rearview mirror finally blinks out.