I have been writing my blog for over a year. I am very proud of what I’ve written, even though I’d have to go into Witness Protection if I ever endeavored to have it published. And as I look back, as I do occasionally, either to marvel at my epically fictional life or to remind myself of what names I used to protect the innocent (and to not get sued by the overly sensitive) I reflect on all that has happened and all that has changed. And changed me.
A year ago, this blog was started when an affront to me, and to J. and to my children had offended me to the point that I had to make a choice. I made a private decision that would ultimately offend J.’s family and create a nearly unfathomable chasm blown more widely open still by his idiot sister Sheila’s insistence that I change my mind so she could sleep at night.
It seemed to matter so much at the time. J’s family seemed so callous in their casual disregard for him.
And now I disregard him. Completely.
A year ago, J. and I had been quietly planning to be married. Who cared if the best date turned out to be the one that stands out in America’s hearts and minds as the most catastrophic day in our history?
And about this time, I began to have doubts. Very serious doubts. Which turned into very grave convictions. Which turned into returned dresses, and rescinded venue reservations, and canceled invitation orders. (The lady who returned my deposit on the hall wrote a lovely note to me. I know she was jonesing for me to spill it. I should call her to go out for a cocktail.) Even without J.’s acknowledgment, all bets were off. No one should go strutting down the aisle when they can’t shake a nagging feeling of dread.
A year later I am sweeping out the last few rancid little crumbs of my life with J. Returning possessions, paying debts, disposing of mementos, pictures, other crap. Washing that man right out of my hair. Leaving on a jet plane. Walking like an Egyptian.
There are certain pieces of jewelry going to consignment shops and eBay or getting sold for scrap. The pieces hold no special significance now, and to the contrary, only serve to remind me of precious time lost. Bad investments. Poor returns. Even Lars’s gifts of atonement didn’t make my skin crawl like this.
I am happy to be packing the last bitter little memories into a box and shipping them off to God-Only-Knows-Where.
And again, a year later, by contrast, I am blissfully happy and hopeful with Scott. I admire so much about him. We are in step with one another. He’s a doer. He makes things happen. He is active and fit and enjoys things like surfing and snowboarding and boating (more than TV and smoking and napping) He adores me without smothering me. He has no festering inferiority complex for me to constantly try to avoid inflaming by doing something egregious like wearing a hot pair of jeans (in fact Scott loves those jeans…) He respects me. Appreciates me. Honors me.
Pinch me.
And in this reflective season of Lent, when we all take stock and are humbled somewhat, I have begun to see a lot of the last year or two in a new light.
Where J. and his shortcomings are now more harshly visible in a stark, unforgiving light, some of the other events of the year have taken a new shape as well.
And I think I have some atoning to do.
No comments:
Post a Comment