Love is a Many Splendored Thing

It was easy to fall in love. Really easy.

We've all been to a wedding or two...all heard the "Love is patient, love is kind" reading by someone in pink taffeta and dyed-to-match shoes.

Well I've got news for you. Love is all those things - and a pant load more.

Love is patient, love is kind. And love is exhilarating and fun and sometimes a little fattening.

Love curls your toes and gives you the most blissful, dreamy sleep.

Love quickens your step and your smile.

Love puts all of your phone numbers into his cell phone so he can call to say he loves you even when he only has a minute. And lets you change the ring tone to a cheesy Abba song and puts your picture as his wallpaper.

Love remembers your friends' names, and your friends' children's names. And your co-workers' names. Even the ones you don't like. (Lars by contrast couldn't remember his own co-workers' names - so could never introduce me...)

Love goes to the beach with you when he'd rather watch a double header.

Love learns to drink microbrewed beer and chardonnay because you don't like Bud in a can.

Love comes to your son's little league game and doesn't make his presence known so as to not torque up your maniac ex-husband's neurosis or cause your children any undue angst. But anonymously cheers his head off anyway.

Love fills up your gas tank and gets your car washed while you are getting your toes done before you leave him alone all weekend to go to Girls Weekend.

Love walks into a cocktail party/crowded restaurant/football stadium and turns to you and whispers "How does it feel to be the prettiest girl here?"

Love runs out and buys Midol and a heating pad and a bottle of chardonnay and watches You've Got Mail for the 100th time on a Saturday night because you have cramps and a zit that makes you look like a hag and you don't feel up to meeting his friends for a drink.

Love drives into town to meet you, during the NBA playoffs, only to turn around and drive you home so you don't have to ride the train on a cold, rainy night. And brings you a treat.

Love smiles politely and makes relevant, inoffensive replies when your mother is on a loud, relentless tear about politics again.

Love comes to the doctors and sits reading back issues of Your Prostate and You and wringing his hands until he knows you have a clean bill of health.

Love drives lots of inconvenient miles out of his way at $4 a gallon to get you to an interview or the Chairman's picnic or a funeral or some other thing for which he has no obligation, all so you don't have to deal with your tendency to get horribly lost in strange places when you're a little nervous to begin with and don't need to show up with pit stains and smeary mascara from crying in frustration.

Love holds your hand, stands behind you, puts himself in harm's way -without being asked and for any reason, whether you caused it with your own foolishness or not. A threat to you is a threat to him. Real or imagined.

Yes, love is hard to find but easy to fall into. Which makes climbing back out such a long, slow difficult task that has you turning around and rethinking the decision over and over.

Rude, Inattentive, Ill mannered, Oh My

And thus began a romance that bloomed and grew for the next three and a half years.

It was so exciting to have something to look forward to all the time…not waiting around for the next Girls Weekend or the next night out without Lars or the next milestone with the kids that I could enjoy in spite of him.

The difference was remarkable.

J. and I talked. About everything. About anything. For hours.

And never once did he act annoyed that I had dared open my mouth during the F-Troop Marathon, or give me the face that clearly was intended to say “What insipid comment must you make that can not wait until I am through yakking endlessly with my friend as though you are not here in the room?”

It was nice to plan what to wear out with J. It was refreshing to actually have somewhere to go, and someone to look nice for.

And someone who returned the favor by being dressed appropriately for the occasion, too. Without being asked. Who put a little effort into his appearance. Who wasn’t standing there in his underwear deciding what to wear just an hour before the wedding/bar mitzvah/dinner party as I stepped from the bathroom completely turned out from head to toe and prepared to dazzle him, if he’d so much as glance in my direction. Only to be asked to iron something at the last minute.

And though Lars would be hard pressed to notice if I were on fire, much less in a stunning new ensemble, he would occasionally, more so at the end of our long hellish journey to the edge of the abyss, make what I'm sure he thought were hilarious derogatory remarks about my appearance. To make me feel insecure. Level the psychic playing field, I guess.

Like telling me my beautiful silk shirt made me look like a jockey.

And comparing my new hair cut to that of a Campbell's Soup Kid (and I don’t mean Mmmm! Mmmm! Good!) Followed by informing me that my "whole head" had looked better the other way.

And inquiries that went something like “What are you supposed to be dressed up as?”

But what Lars had failed to realize was that, over time, his voice was not the only one I could hear.

I had received enough unsolicited compliments on my appearance from people outside my marriage to know that Lars was in the minority. And I don't mean compliments that were in response to my asking "Do these pants make me look fat?"

And frankly, I had gotten enough positive feedback about myself as a person in general to begin to realize that Lars was just a mean spirited kook. And being a mean spirited kook was just where his flaws began. There were plenty of others festering just behind the facade.

And it was that realization that set my feet on the path to divorce in the first place. If I was this wonderful, educated, worthwhile person to so many other wonderful, educated, worthwhile people who were not in a position of honor as my husband, why couldn’t my husband see me as such and take joy in the fact that every night I came home to him? Evidently only to be crapped on?

And if, despite my efforts to make him see me as anything more than just another wage earner in the house and just another person who he could dismiss like a serf, I was still, for all intents and purposes, invisible, why not vanish from his life altogether?

And when I finally had vanished, and alternately had appeared to J., he treated me as though I was a vision of loveliness, a joy to behold, a gift from above.

How very different. How very sad not to have felt that way for more than a dozen years of married life.

Day and Night

And from the start, things were different. Little things. Big things. Things that made me go hhhmm.

Like the time J. and I were hiking and I stepped in some rude defiantly non-curbing person's dog's shit, and J. found me a place to sit, removed my shoe, and then took it down a ravine to the creek to clean it off. Without being asked. And it wasn't so I would not smear it all over the carpet in his car, or foul the air in general. We had my car and were miles from the end of the hike in the great outdoors. He did it just to be nice. The modern day version of throwing his cloak over the puddle.

And J.'s willingness to help me out of a jam. Large or small. He'd show up with the right gizmo or white elephant item I needed to get something accomplished, or introduce me to just the person who could help me, or see that whatever heinous task I needed to complete was done before I got home.


Lars had generally taken the position that whatever the problem, I had surely painted myself into the corner on my own with my own foolishness, and unless there was a threat to him personally, my problems, large and small, were mine to fix. Clogged drain, transportation issue, tension at work, sick child, social engagement that conflicted with some rare and impersonal visit from his mother, my own pain and suffering.


And there were other things J. did that stood in stark contrast to how Lars handled similar situations. Things that made me realize that until J. did them his way, I'd been unaware of how bizarrely Lars had acted for so long.


Lars was always freakishly private. Shades drawn, doors closed, unavailable, inaccessible, unfriendly. Don't approach him. No, any contact would have to be on his terms. Our house, had I let it, would have taken on the appearance of a cave. Years would go by before Lars would make eye contact with a neighbor, much less meet one.


There was one crazy old lady, who after she got her meds worked out and stopped believing that the other neighbor had kidnapped her friend and was hiding her in her basement, took quite a shine to Lars. And in return, he regularly took her newspaper to her door so she would not have to amble unsteadily down her driveway in her Oomphies to get it herself. At some point, her daughter and half a dozen kids of varying paternal lineage came to squat at her house on a permanent basis. Lars took exception to their taking advantage. (At least that's how he saw it. She might have considered them great company.) One Christmas when we had tons of food left over, and desserts galore, Lars decided to be generous...but only with her. He prepared to take her a piece of pie. One piece! Knowing there was an entire family sitting in the house! Totally panicked that he was about to make an ass of himself, I told him to take the whole pie. Take two!(We had numerous whole pies left, I think we could spare some!) He replied that he didn't want the others to eat it; it was intended for her.


A moron says what?


Only after extreme peer pressure and as I recall, physical intervention on my part, did he relent and take an entire pie across the street. Weirdo.


The peculiarities didn't quit there. On the rare dinner date, when we'd be seated by the maitre d', Lars without exception would confuse everyone by requesting the seat in which I was about to be seated.


And dumbfounded, the stunned maitre d' and I would just go along.


So for 20 years, I had my back to the room. In order for Lars to be on the lookout for the Taliban, Hamas or the Stasi or whatever threat he felt was about to befall him from whomever was targeting him.

All those years, I had to face The Wall. And it was not Pink Floyd's The Wall. If it had been then at least there would have been some musical entertainment. In my case there was just Lars and his substandard table manners.


And so, on this particular night, when my second date with J., following the surprise date with J., began with me stepping out of the elevator at my building and into the beautiful bas relief marble decor in the lobby, J. greeted me warmly, looking handsome. And as he held the door open for me to walk through, he caught the attention of the guard at the desk and called to her, "Goodnight, Janet!"


I turned to ask him if he knew her.


He simply said, "I do now."


Very different, indeed.

Mystery Date

We were meeting about 20 minutes from my house.

The whole way there I was wondering how I'd recognize J. It had been quite a few years. Maybe he'd recognize me? No way. I was waaaaaayyyyyy improved since the last time I'd seen him. Better haircut. Better shoes for sure. And not dressed like I was headed to an interview.

I found a decent parking space so I would not have to walk very far in the bitter cold (since the Marital Discord Diet, I had no ability to keep myself warm.) I made my way across the street to the pub we'd decided on. I could see it was crowded. Jammed actually.

Maybe I should call his cell and ask him for longitudes and lattitudes? Or maybe if he is at approximately 3 o'clock or 9 o'clock, if you consider the Guinness tap 12 o'clock

And as I considered these options, I heard a footstep on the pavement in the cold behind me. I turned and there was J. Of course I'd recognize him. He had that fabulous hair. Those green eyes. What was I thinking? And he knew me, too.

We sat at the bar, (9 o'clock) and ordered beer and appetizers.

And I am not sure where the night went, but we covered a lot of history, a lot personal territory, all the professional ground necessary. And before I knew it, it was hours later and we were at a second pub, not far from the first, and I was inquiring why he was still wearing his wedding ring.

He wore it for his girls. They didn't need to have anything more to wonder or worry about. I'd ditched mine the minute I'd told Lars he was getting the heave ho. I am not sure my kids would have noticed that I wasn't wearing my ring. I am not sure at that point if they would have noticed if I didn't have a head.

I was skeptical. That excuse seemed flimsy. But just the same, to let him know I was asking for a reason, and that reason being, that I wanted to make sure he'd truly been released on waivers, as though I could not help myself, I put out my hand and touched the ring.

And held his hand.

And 12 hours later, I'd had a kiss goodnight, had gotten a lovely e-mail, had received a bouquet of roses at my office (sending my boss sailing over the edge of reason) and had been asked on a second date. We would meet after work - he'd pick me up in my building lobby.

I was nervous. The first date turned out to be a surprise date. Now that I knew this was a date, I was a wreck.

And although I was wearing a fabulous outfit, I needed to work in a trip to Lord and Taylor at some point, because somehow I'd managed to get a snag in my fishnets.

And nothing says "Five Dollar Hooker" like a hole in your fishnets.

Date, Shmate. What date?

In spite of the fact that I initiated our divorce. And in spite of the fact that Lars drained my bank account and stole my credit card and cancelled it, and forced me to skip a planned vacation and plan another on the fly, and regularly denigrated me in front of the children and in public, and tried to convince everyone that I was a philandering, alcoholic, disinterested mother and wife, somehow, he was overly interested in who might be calling me (with that crooning, dreamy, manly voice) and what the purpose of his call might be.

Called me at work. Had a few questions for me about that call.

Of course, not wanting to return from my date to find the door locks changed and my personal belongings strewn across the lawn exposed to the elements, I lied. Said it was a cousin. No more explanation. Acted casual. Was actually shaking.

He totally didn't buy it.

I totally didn't give a shit.

And just for the record, when this episode eventually bubbled to the surface in an argument, Lars noted that he considered it cheating.

Cheating.

Even though we were legally separated and I had my lawyer's permission (in fact both lawyers...the fired one and the new one) to date my face off.

And in my defense I'd argued that point - and noted that I knew he told people that I cheated on him even when he knew I never did, and swore on my father's grave to it.

Kindly, sweet man that he is, he took that opportunity to make a disparaging comment about my father and me. Nice.

But anyway, I'd gone off to enjoy a perfectly horrible day at work...inclusive of enduring what was becoming a pissing contest with my also-getting-a-divorce boss who was having a less than rational reaction to my rebirth and rejuvenation as a divorcee, since she was the dumpee in her divorce and I represented the enemy.

Ran home. Took a bath. A bubble bath. I imagined that my mother used to do this.

I dressed in a brand spanking new outfit from the "Date Clothes" collection I'd stuffed my closet with, and stepped confidently out the door to my car.

On my way to the first truly hopeful evening I'd looked forward to in a long time.

Betty Lou's Steppin' Out Tonight

And then just a little while later my phone rang.

My caller ID indicated that it was a law firm calling...but not MY lawyer's law firm. Was Lars' lawyer Rochelle breaking all the rules and calling me directly? Is she really looking for that kind of fight? My fight-or-flight mechanism kicked into gear...and I placed my hand on the phone, my heart racing , by hand shaking, my mind trying to force my voice to sound calm and under control and in complete command of my faculties...and said, in a voice more Kathleen Turner than I'd intended, "Hello."

"Hello. J. Cullen."

And the voice was as deep and resonating and melodious as I'd remembered.

And it was as if the dozen or so years since we'd last spoken a full sentence to one another vanished and we were talking like old friends. Catching up on kids, getting current on careers, inquiring about siblings. And then we got into it.

We'd both married complete nuts. We'd both taken a heaping helping of shit from our families for doing so. We both quietly endured more insult, injury and injustice than most people would believe us capable of enduring. We'd both found a way to not murder our soon-to-be-first-spouses. (He went to meditate at a shrine, I walked laps at the high school track, both of us staying at it until we could go home and be reasonably confident we'd be able to suppress any homicidal thoughts.) We were both happy to be getting out, but sad for all the sadness and chaos it brought to our children's lives.

I took my place at the top of the basement stairs, sitting half way in and out of the doorway of the kitchen. A favorite place to have a lengthy private chat. It was nice to talk with someone about the otherwordliness of divorce without feeling like I was burdening them with my worries. It is an all-consuming thing. We had loads to talk about. And talked very easily about it all.

After an hour or so, which seems like considerably less time, J. suggested, as his mother had, that we get together for a beer and catch up some more.

I took this to be a "give me a call someday" kind of request. But his next sentence was asking me to look at my calendar and suggest a date that worked for me. He could arrange just about anything.

I knew Lars was absconding with the kids to his brother's house a few hours away when he took his share of the days later in the week. I suggested Thursday. He agreed. I gave him my cell number and we discussed a location.

I had a date. Sort of. I was going out in public with a man, a man who, if memory served, was good looking and kind. A man who was not my husband. Yay, me.

And then just like a date, he called on Thursday morning to confirm.

Only he called my house number instead of my cell.

And I'd gone to work already.

But Lars hadn't.

Uh-oh.

'Tis the Season to Be Jolly

It was, although I had no way of knowing it at the time, my last excruciating holiday season with Lars.

He was his usually Scroogy self - went and bought ALL the kids gifts at some warehouse store with out consulting me - or even informing me - got gifts I would have never selected, and then "billed me" for them. Things like a battery-operated hot pink barking, walking poodle with various tacky accessories. (Which remains untouched by human hands, even today).

All this so he could tell his friends that he did all the Christmas shopping. As if.

And since when you have announced your intention to divorce, you are really just social typhoid, we had far too much time together over the holidays. They are more fog than fa-la-la-la-la to me now, but I do remember sort of faking it through separate visits to family and friends' homes, speaking in hushed tones about how I was doing. But mostly "celebrating" by ourselves in our house, the tension almost crippling with its weight. Visions of impalement with a porcelain Star of Bethlehem danced in my head.

And as we always had done unless we were traveling, Lars and I split the holiday break from school. Each taking a few days off from work to spend time with the kids and to let the kids spend time with their friends and their new loot, even if Lars did buy the world's largest privately held collection of crap to give to the them.


And it was one of the days that I was home...and not confined to my 3rd floor dwelling, that I connected with J.


Not that I was confined to the 3rd floor by a lock or a mandate. No, it's just that when you share a home with a lunatic, and his ass groove is deeply indented in the sofa, and he routinely sits in complete blackness to watch several TV shows at one time while guzzling beers and dipping Chips Ahoy cookies in them, and there can be no talking or reading in his royal company, there really isn't any reason to spread out in the other available rooms. I'm supposed to read John Irving at the dining room table?

So I'd let the kids have a few friends over and after whipping up lunch for a cast of thousands, had set about sorting through and paying the bills Lars and I shared, and projecting a 2007 budget for myself that included buying the house from him. My New Year's resolution.

And it was then that I got a call from J.'s Mom. She was nearly giddy she was so pleased with herself. She'd had J's family over for Christmas dinner the day before and had gotten him to give her his cell phone number. "Call him any time," she'd said.

I dutifully took down the number on the inside of my checkbook cover.

And in spite of having had school girl crushes on him at this time or that time throughout our lives, and though he'd remained in my thoughts long after having seen him at funerals or parties our families had attended, all I could think was "No way am I doing the calling."

I finished the bills and went to stoke the fire so the kids and I could watch "Elf."