True Love Exists

My husband is living proof.

I am not an easy person to live with. Never have been.

I have OCD and all the goodies that come with it. Anxiety, too.

I have a tendency to be impatient. When something needs doing, I want it done now.

Booze and I have a love/hate relationship. One drink and I’m still “good Sherry.” Too many, and I turn into an asshole. A person who says and does things they don’t remember saying and doing the next day. I’m working on this.

Blurting out epithets is my specialty. Not thinking before blurting is my extra-special “gift.” As I’ve stated before, when I get scared, I get mean.

My husband is a good man. A sweet man. Always has been.

Jack and I met over thirty years ago. He tended bar at a popular watering hole in the Rogers Park neighborhood of Chicago. He was witness to my pick-ups, boyfriends, new boyfriends — wash, rinse, repeat. At the time, he was living with someone.

Friends. That’s what we became. Well before anything else developed. He marveled at my capacity for 151 rum, while, as I found out later, privately thinking I was nuts.

Gradually, I began to see my mate-to-be in a whole new light. One that included the swapping of bodily fluids.

As I watched his strong forearms flex as he wiped down the bar, I realized, “I want this man.”

But I wasn’t quite as shallow as all that. It wasn’t just about sex appeal. This guy was funny (and still is), whip-smart (aka, a reader), played the best music ( still does), and drew the biggest crowds on the nights he worked. Now, the “crowd” consists of me and our cats.

An animal lover, like me, I couldn’t help but be drawn to Jack’s intelligence, sense of humor and innate sweetness.

As we made our first tentative steps toward one another, we still had our baggage. Both of us. Jack was living with a very nice woman who could cook and bake up a storm and I…well, I blew up my oven warming up a coffee cake.

I was also up to my old tricks. One night at the bar, a guy slithered in next to me and struck up a conversation. A very good-looking guy. With a lethally-sexy accent. Turns out, M was here on a fellowship at the University of Chicago. He was half-Swiss, half-Dutch, and totally devastating. In a good way.

And, he called me “Darling.”

What can I say? M swept me off my platform wedgies. Soon, we were hot and heavy. So much so that when M had to return to Europe for a while, he asked me to join him there. I was to meet him in Belgium and we would go from there.

That was a no-brainer for me. I took my two weeks-vacation from the Public Relations firm I worked at, plus, an extra week for good measure. An unpaid extra week.

I flew straight to Brussels on an eight-hour flight. We met, and for a while, things were as good as they’d been in Chicago. But not for long.

We traveled to Switzerland and Holland, with a short stint in France. I wanted to visit Jim Morrison’s grave at Pere Lachaise cemetery, but it was closed! As was the Louvre.

Things started to go pear-shaped when M dragged me into nearly every cathedral in every city we visited. Yes, they were stunning, but after a while, when you’ve seen one. You know. I guess, as my enthusiasm waned, so did my appeal.

I met M’s sister and mother — who served deli-style horse meat during my visit, which I politely declined. Through M’s sister, I also learned of an “old girlfriend,” who apparently, was still very much a part of his life. Something about the way she told me this rankled. As if she took pleasure in bursting my fragile bubble.

Something disturbing happened while we were abroad. M started to knock us “classless Americans” in not-so-subtle ways. On his own turf, he changed. He turned into a tight-assed basher of all things American. Conveniently forgetting about his fellowship, by the way.

The tipping point came one morning when he left our room to run an errand. Or so he said. I hopped out of bed and began rifling through his stuff. I had a strong feeling about something and I couldn’t shake it.

As it turned out, I was right. I found a letter from M to his old girlfriend. In it, he devoted a good deal of space to bitching about me! I was boring. I didn’t appreciate their culture, etc., etc.

Stunned and upset, my first instinct was to call Jack. And I did. Back here in the States, it was the wee hours and he was still at the bar.

I asked him to pick me up at the airport as I was getting the hell out of Dodge. And, because he is who he is — my White Knight came to my rescue.

A funny (but not to my Dad) aside: I totally forgot that my father was going to meet me at O’Hare airport and he waited and worried at Customs for hours, while I’d already been and gone. Just like with Jack, I could always rely on my Dad, even if we were pissed off at one another.

After getting off the plane, I wanted to kiss the ground. Good old Chicago. I was back. Back among the people who understood me and loved me for who I was. Back to my life.

Jack loaded up his car with my luggage and drove to my apartment in Rogers Park. Because I hadn’t given her a heads up, my neighbor and friend wasn’t home to let me into my place. She had the key and for some idiotic reason, I didn’t have a spare.

So, we sat in Jack’s car and toked on a joint. And talked. And talked.

After my European fiasco, Jack and I were solid. We were a couple. And thirty-something odd years later, we still are. Thank the Gods. Because I don’t know what I’d do without the person who taught me what true love is, and who, in turn, is my one true love.

So, don’t settle for anything less, people. Love is out there. The kind that lasts. You might have to screw up a few times before you get it — but if your heart is open to it, get it, you will.