It isn't as though there weren't signs.
Of course there were.
But signs are odd things. Signs are little things. Little itty bitty indications that something is wrong but in a vacuum don't add up to much. A little disconnect. A little episode. An inkling. A statement.
It is not until you have a whole string of episodes and inklings and other tell tale sound bites that a clear picture emerges.
I almost didn't marry Lars. Have I mentioned that?
We were engaged once and had some pretty rocky moments. I actually went away for the weekend with Estelle once during my engagement to try to decide whether or not I should go through with it.
Again, was this God's way of telling me to think, think, think, think, think, think before making a commitment that isn't easily undone?
I resolved to remain engaged that weekend. And only later did I learn that a college friend Mom and I had run into while away, a guy who I'd liked quite a lot but hadn't met until we were about to graduate, had pulled Estelle aside while I was in the ladies room and told her not to let me go through with it. I had assumed when she'd told me that he had selfish motivations. He really hadn't. As an outside observer, and someone who cared for me, he thought I was headed for a world of trouble. He was right. (Sorry, Ralph, for not taking you seriously.)
Eventually, I did call off my wedding. Took a bath on some of the down payments, cried a whole lot, made a lot of sad phone calls. I had not had the fortitude to just tell Lars "This is a mistake." Instead I had picked a fight over something irrelevant and had used that to springboard into a litany of complaints and issues and other things that indicated to me that we were out of alignment.
By then, we had chosen an apartment in which to begin our life. I was buying dishes and linens and had begun to move things from my childhood home into it. Lars had moved in.
And when I finally picked the fight and chucked the ring at him and screamed and carried on like a loon, I also realized how lost I was. How much in limbo I felt. I could not simply move back in with my Dad and brother like I'd never left. I had to move forward. My sanity depended on it.
I began to get little local papers with For Rent ads in the classifieds, right there next to the yard sale ads, and Wanted To Buy ads, and the Cherry Dining Room Set for sale ads, and the Wedding Dress for Sale, Never Worn, Size 8 ads. I for one just took my dress to be preserved. I was not that hopeless about my marriage prospects. But I did need a place to live, so I scoured the two or three best local weeklies with the most promising neighborhoods listed. I went to see a few affordable efficiencies. No way. I went to see a few above-store one bedrooms I could manage financially. They all seemed so lonely. I began responding to Houses to Share ads and saw some lovely, stately homes that 10 or 11 bikers called home and parked their Harleys in front of. I saw a couple of houses that looked like they might be held together by the crud that had hardened on all of the flat surfaces.
And then there was one last ad. A house to share, walking distance from my train, in a lovely little neighborhood. One of the roommates was getting married and moving away. One of the roommates was practically living with her very successful boyfriend and was never home, but left behind fabulous clothes she didn't mind the roommates wearing. The other roommate was Kate.
Without further discussion with Lars, I told the gals I'd love to share their home and set my sights on enjoying life as a single with a roommate in a three-bedroom twin home with a yard and a washer and dryer in the basement. And I got the big bedroom.
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