It would be kind to call me a “serial monogamist”. Less kind would be “sport dater” and even less kind…um, my family reads this, so I’ll just say as a youngster and into my 20’s I was what you’d call on a Quest. My relationships were like hardcore songs-short, intense, and barely recognizable as what they purported to be.
My goal was to make it to the year mark. If I could make it a year with someone, then I felt Valid. If we made it six months, then it wouldn’t seem so ridiculous that we got engaged within the first month we knew each other (yes, this happened. More than once. I hang my head in shame and amazement).
I never did make it to that year mark, but I came close a few times. I did a solid nine month stint with Silas, who died in a motorcycle wreck before we could kill each other, and later a couple of spotty years with Chris, who left me for alcohol after moving to Florida to make a go of being sober. (note to alcoholics: working in a bar=not a great way to make a go of sobriety)
All the sudden this week it occurred to me that I’ve been with my husband for almost 8 years, and I’m totally freaking out. Not so much freaking out as really fudgeing proud of myself and also? Sad for anyone I dated back then, and for my poor self going through all those 18 second relationships of no substance, trying to invent connections that weren’t there.
I’m not one of those “oh, every experience I ever had led me to where I am today, so I wouldn’t change a thing” people. fudge that. Erase some stuff. Seriously, I’m up for it. Spotless Mind me.
Ok, there was one guy (the alkie, as it turns out) who taught me how to clean up after myself, and I do have to credit Silas’ parents for teaching me that when you walk into a room it is customary to greet the occupants of that room. (If you’ve ever met my dad, you realize why I did not know about this simple custom)
I’m reading about Zen now, and working on the whole “there is no past and no future” concept, and in that spirit my focus is ever so slightly leaning toward living in the moment, not writing about past moments or future moments and releasing regret and etc etc. But I must indulge once in a great while in the overwhelming regret that I haven’t known my husband forever. I have loved, and I am fond of those I’ve loved, but if I had my way I would have a hundred and fifty lifetimes with him and for that reason sometimes I find myself wishing that I hadn’t wasted so much time “getting myself in the right headspace” to meet my soulmate.
I did not believe those old fudges who complained about the years passing by so quickly, when all I wanted was to just be a little older.
Now I mourn the passing of each day that brings me closer to our separation.
(but wait, we’re not really separate, are we? We’re both part of one big thing? But it’s not actually a thing, right? I’ll just be over here in the remedial zen class)