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When How Not To Marry the Wrong Guy asked me to serve as a contributing blogger for Cold Feet Week, I was flattered. I was invited to join the marriage conversation, despite the fact that I’ve never even been married. I guess, in a way, this is my Bethenny Frankel “Real Housewives” moment. And she came out of that show with best-selling book and a lifetime supply of margaritas. Why not?
Thing is while I blog about my single life, what I haven’t really talked about is the fact that I actually have been divorced. Just not in the traditional way. The wedding was without ceremony. In fact, we skipped it all together. It was a split decision, an arrangement of convenience. But still, it shaped the person I am today.
After I moved out from the apartment I shared with my ex, I moved in with my best friend, David. It was on his couch that I nursed myself back to mental health, one spoonful of Haagen-Dazs at a time. After watching this routine for several weeks, David decided “we” should get a gym membership, before my love affair with ice cream killed any legitimate chances of a rebound. I liked the idea, but there was no way I could afford it—that gym was more than $120 a month, and even if I could pay, I’d proven that commitment was not my strong suit. Which is when David made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
“Let’s get married,” he said, turning off the TV.
Now this took me by surprise for several reasons. One, I never thought I’d be proposed to with a pint of dulce de leche in my hand. And two, David is gay.
“I’m not sure this will be a satisfying union,” I said.
“If we are ‘married’ we can be on the same gym membership. Domestic partners count, and you’re living with me. It’s not even lying.”
“I DO!” I yelled, raising my spoon in the air.
And while I moved out from David’s condo shortly thereafter, we continued our covert marriage for more than a year. I celebrated anniversaries with saunas, towel service, and lavender body lotion. And I loved every second.
But this fall, something devastating happened. Worse than Athlete’s foot, or a Lulu Lemon wedgie: David got engaged. This time, for real.
“We have to talk,” he said, sitting me down after our Saturday morning body sculpt class. “Now that Luke has moved in with me, we’re going to start going to the gym together a lot more…”
“That’s great!” I said, hoping this topic would blow over like my bangs under the breeze of those fantastic locker room hair dryers.
“No, he’s going to join me on my membership. He’s going to replace you as my domestic partner.”
“But you and I were married FIRST!” I said, knowing full well this line of defense was futile.
So, much like it began, in an instant our marriage was over. And while I grieved the roof deck pool and the rock wall, what saddened me the most was the realization that at 31, the closest I had come to marriage was a gym divorce.
And let me tell you, there’s nothing like losing an imaginary husband to send you into an Eat, Pray, Love tailspin.
With nothing holding me back, I left Chicago. For more than ten years I had been holding on to the notion that I would go to Argentina on my honeymoon. At a certain point you stop waiting, and start doing. And those are the moments that define you.
Turns out, my “unnymoon” was the best thing that could have happened. I thought back to my ex, and wondered what it would be like if he was there with me—and remembered quickly why he never made it into my Argentina fantasy. Places are only as romantic as the people you’re with.
On one trek in El Chalten, Patagonia, I saw a couple on their actual honeymoon. It had started to pour. Not the misty, romantic rainbow kind of rain, but torrential rain daggers that pierce through daypacks and destroy maps. The woman was furious, refusing to descend, and shouting something about the fact that her new husband had not informed her there would be rain on this trip. He turned his back and screamed something about how maybe if she listened she would have packed better gear.
I quietly observed all this from my perch under a tree branch, where I was waiting out the rain and enjoying the last of my dark chocolate bar. I took out my journal and wrote, “Here’s to me.”
I’d rather be on a trail enjoying my time than traveling with someone who is holding me back. And at that moment I was grateful for every relationship I’d ever had, because somehow, they had delivered me to this place. Even my gym divorce.
And who needs a StairMaster, anyway, when you can have the mountains of Patagonia instead?
***
More about Cold Feet Week: Cold Feet Week is brought to you by How Not to Marry the Wrong Guy: Is he the one or should you run? and the experts at IdonowIdont.com. Just in time for wedding season, the sponsors are doing everything they can to inspire runaway brides (and grooms) to pay attention to their cold feet before they walk down the aisle! And Cold Feet Week isn’t just for engaged people—they want to help anyone who is having doubts about his or her relationship.Related Disasters:
I don’t know about you, but for me it’s rare when I meet someone I really connect with. But it happened to me last weekend. I met a guy at a bar, we started talking, and it turns out, we share so much in common: he wears skinny jeans, loves Lady Gaga and shares a phobia of beer nuts in close proximity to bathrooms that lack hand soap.
“So, what do you do?” I asked turning my stool to face him.
“I’m a flamer,” he said, swirling his vodka soda with his straw.
“I’m sorry—what did you just say?”
“I said I’m a flamer. Like, professionally.”
“I live in Boystown,” I said. “Don’t play. It’s offensive.”
“No, I mean I really flame things — in the restaurant, where I work.”
“That’s a job?”
“Yes, it’s a job. I’m the fire guy. I mostly do desserts—we do a lot of flambé — but sometimes I’ll light up a Greek cheese, too . Opa!”
“I’m sorry, are those finger guns?”
“I don’t have fire. I had to improvise.”
“ Here’s your chance–looks like our candle is out. Show me your stuff,” I said, pushing the candle towards him.
“I don’t do candles. What do you think I am? A busser? You know what? I don’t have time for ignorance.” And with that, he stood up and left.
Another one up in flames.
Related Disasters:
I went to a wedding this weekend that was so beautiful, so full of love, and so intimate that it restored my belief in relationships and renewed my conviction that it’s always worth the wait.
In the short term, however, it also confirmed the fact that I will have to sit the bench for the rest of this wedding season, lest I have a complete and utter meltdown.
As I get older the gap between “me” [Disaster] and “them” [Happily-Ever-Afterturds] gets wider. Where there used to be a cabin full of single guests, now there are only two of us (and the only reason she’s still single is that she lost a lot of time due to a long stint as a lesbian).
The tide has turned, and I should have known it the moment I arrived. I showed up at the lodge with a grocery bag full of Gatorade, Advil and late night snacks (I’m the ultimate provider where orange carbs are concerned). One of the Happily Ever Afterturds turned to me confused and asked, “What’s that for?”
Sigh.
But it’s not the late night that’s hard for the Disaster, or the ceremony. It’s the reception, hands-down. The brutal “All the Married People come to the dance floor please!” song. Followed by the slow songs. Then the bouquet toss. And inevitably, the Disaster Anthem: “All the Single Ladies.” When this comes on, we find ourselves thrust into a sea of 16 year olds, busting dance moves that say “Woohooo! I love being single!” Even married women come to the floor to show their solidarity and we let them dance with us–a nod to say “It’s TRUE! Our grass IS greener!”
But of course, we’re faking it. And in a small wedding, the feeling of being “singled out” is even more intensified. Where there used to be 20 single guys, now there were only two, a statistic that had me making out with the cupcake table, and my married friends working overtime.
“Oooh, what about him?” one Happily Ever Afterturd asked me.
“He’s wearing suspenders and a bow tie. And he’s definitely not wearing socks.”
“You’re not supposed to when you’re wearing loafers.”
“You’re not supposed to wear loafers.”
“Please. If you keep this up you’re going to be single forever.”
“I’m not being difficult. Loafer guys don’t like me, either. I’ve just saved us both a lot of angst and awkward dates. He should probably thank me.”
Just as I finished saying this Loafer slid across the dance floor a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business, stopped just short of me, and held out his hand.
My friend pushed me into him before I could even turn around to give her my highly perfected “SOS” look. There was no turning back: before I knew, it, I was dancing.
He was short, shorter than me, which made our dance moves awkward and jerky. He twirled me into a great aunt more than once, and stepped all over my pedicured toes. But he was It. I was surrounded by couples, and I smiled. I danced. I tried to like it. I counted the fish on his bow tie and suspendered my disbelief.
Related Disasters:
Here’s what happens when people stop wearing socks, and start getting real. This is another gem I received on Match.com. It was so romantic, I had to respond.
______________________________________________________
Hello….
I read and love your profile. I just got on Match again and don’t even have a picture yet.
I’m hoping you’re open minded. If this message offends you, I apologize but I figured I’d give it a shot. I am not trying to be disrespectful at all.
Anyway, here goes. If you knew a guy who was a nice, safe, legit, no head games, no BS…..and he would pay you to stick your barefeet in his face, he does absolutely nothing to them, would you do it? Weird question, I know. But this can actually happen. It’s not a game, I don’t have time for that.
Let’s say it was a friend of yours and you knew you could make easy money doing that whenever you felt like it, are you open minded enough to take advantage of it?
I have no problem getting a pic to you to show that I’m serious.
I hope to hear back from you. Again, if you take this the wrong way and are offended, I really am sorry. I wish you luck in finding what you’re looking for.
Gabe
BTW, I’m a single white male, 35. No kids, never been married.
______________________________________________________
Dear Gabe,
No worries at all, I totally don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not offended. I mean, I’ll admit I’ve never stuck my foot in someone’s face before for sexual pleasure, but I do give myself the chills sometimes when I clean my ears with a Q-tip, so who am I to judge?!
And I too have a recurring foot fantasy. Only mine involves a glass slipper and a bunch of footmen that turn into mice.
I love mice. I love all animals, actually. How do you feel about animals, Gabe? Have you ever dressed up in a giant mouse costume and made passionate animal love? It’s so primal but so innocent. Do you think you may be down?
My uncle runs a costume shop, so if you’re not into mice, that’s cool. I’m also into mermaids, lions, dalmatians and clown fish.
Hope to hear from you!
BTW I’m also single with no kids. But I do have a ferret, an iguana and several hamsters. All of them (with the exception of the ferret) have feet.
______________________________________________________
Have you received a Disaster email from an online dating site? Send it to me at disasteronheels[at]gmail.com, or through the Facebook page. I’ll write your reply and post it to the blog.
Related Disasters:
Sorry folks, but I have to issue another spoiler alert. Only this time, the story doesn’t end well. It ends with me, multiple cats and lifetime subscription to Netflix.
This morning while hopping around in my bedroom trying to squeeze into my Spanx, I accidentally bumped into my full-length mirror. Actually, I can’t tell exactly what happened– all I remember is that I caught a look of my naked self in the mirror, causing a Spanktaculous shock, and next thing I know the mirror was crashing to the ground, shattering my good luck, and any hope of landing a normie this decade.
Even more tragic is the fact that this was not the first mirror I’ve broken this year. It was the sixth (if you include compacts and side views—don’t ask, I’m also a Disaster on Wheels). I did the math and that’s like 42 years of bad luck, which means when I’m finally able to get lucky again I’ll be 73, and horny as hell.
So note to widowers and divorcees of the future: please, look for me when you’re out exercising at the mall. I’ll be the hot one with the perm, sensible shoes, and industrial strength Spanx. Pancake breakfast is on me.
Related Disasters:
My sister is to matchmaking as Velveeta is to fondue. It seems like a good idea, but inevitably it’s a hot mess.
My sister has moved from one long term relationship to another and landed herself in a marriage and a house. Lately it has become her mission to marry me off, too. Or at least get me happily dating in Chicago to reduce my flight risk. But after years of serial monogamy, my sister has lost her game.
A couple of weeks ago I brought her to a fundraising event where she won over the crowd with her grace and charm. “Wow, you’re an architect? You know, my sister loves buildings. You should talk to her. She’s the one over there–the one with two Chardonnays.” Then she proceeded to write down my name, email and cell phone number on the back of her business card, framed it with a heart, and handed it to him.
Needless to say I never heard from this guy, but that doesn’t stop BamBam from clubbing men over the head and dragging them back to the sister cave. And this problem has only gotten worse since she bought a house. I get calls at least twice a week. Yesterday she called and didn’t even say hello, she just jumped right in.
“We’ve got a hot roofer,” she said, frantically. “I think he’s got kids, but I don’t see a ring. Do you want me to stall him until you can get over here?”
Then there’s the termite guy. And the fence guy. And the general contractor, who she can’t understand, but she’s pretty sure it’s just the accent, not the fact that he’s a drunk.
And week by week BamBam lines up the suitors, and yet, somehow, I still wind up alone in the cave.
Related Disasters:
Dear DOH,
I have a dating theory that I’d like to run by you. Lately, I’ve been witnessing this phenomenon of dating that the more fun I have on date with a guy and the more we hit it off, the less likely I am to hear from him again. Why do you think this is?
Sincerely,
Baffled & Confused
Dear Victim,
I’m afraid your instincts are right. There is only one piece of advice I can give you: lock the doors and stay away from the basement. You are dating serial killers.
I had a similar experience. I went on an amazing date with a guy. At 30 he’s already partner in a successful law firm, and was headed off to Ecuador to climb a volcano. Turns out, I’ve spent a month in Ecuador and had lots to say on this subject. After dinner he didn’t want the date to end, so we took the rest of our red wine to go and headed to the park. On the way we talked about triathlons– there’s one he always does in South Carolina, he suggested that I might like it too, and if we were still hanging out, he’d bring me. We made out, and he pointed to his condo on the 44th floor overlooking the lake. Given that things went so well, I figured I’d have plenty of opportunities to see his condo in person, and decided to take a cab home.
Without boring you with the details of the grueling days that followed, I’ll cut to the chase. He never called, and I’m just glad that I never went to his condo, as I’d never be here to tell the tale. There’s only one logical conclusion: he’s a sweet-talking cat killer who probably stows women under the floor boards. From now on, we shall refer to him as “Dexter.”
Now, even if they aren’t women killers, per say, Dexters can systematically and methodically kill every real opportunity at a relationship. Assuming your dates are having as much fun as you think they are (and I have no reason to think they’re not) somewhere over the course of the date, he realizes you’re the real deal. He’s having fun, but later, on his ride home, he also realizes he’s not ready for you.
I’m not sure there’s an answer to this phenomenon, but if I were you, I’d skew older (or dabble in divorcees). This won’t always work, but it does improve your chances that the guy you date will realize what he’s got. Just a hunch.
Single-y yours,
Disaster
Disagree? Or have another theory? Leave a comment below, or email me at disasteronheels@gmail.com
