RELATIONSHIPS, AGING, MEMOIR

Was It Because We Gave Up?

One of the great mysteries of life is how people find each other, especially in later years. Sometimes help comes in mysterious ways.

I was divorced in 1995 at the age of 42.

Right after Ken moved out, an otherwise pragmatic friend introduced me to numerology. I was not “woo-woo” until then. She asked for my birthday, then said, “You’re in a ‘1’ year.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. “New beginnings,” she responded. I got interested in numerology after that, doing my own chart and others. I swear, I learned more about myself and my ex by doing our charts than I had in years of therapy.

One book that I mysteriously cannot find now, predicted that I wouldn’t have another big love until my 60’s. If that’s not depressing, I don’t know what is.

I didn’t date right away. I felt that I needed to find who I was before I went in search. I worked a very full-time job. I spent a lot of my free time dancing around the living room to songs that made me cry copiously, like Don Henley’s The Heart of the Matter. Or trying to laugh at the old version of Comedy Central that was all-day stand-up comedy and actual funny stuff. That helped, but wasn’t enough to get past the trauma.

On the 4th of July that year, 1995, a 65-year-old friend with MS, whose husband had left her to be with a 35-year-old, looked at me and said, “You’re angry.” I debated it with her, but she was probably right. She admonished me to take a “Rebuilding When Your Relationship Ends” class. Bruce Fisher was a therapist in Boulder, Colorado, who had written a book of the same title, and then started 10-week classes for people who were going through break-ups.

The classes gave me a new, though temporary, group of friends to hang out with. We went to dances, concerts, dinners, and more. We were a group of people who were going through the same thing, so we could talk about our divorces as much as we wanted. This alone saved our own families and friends from listening to us talk in circles, which divorcing and recently divorced people tend to do.

Over the next two years, I volunteered for the Fisher group and met many recently divorced people. All had their stories to tell. And it helped me to start healing. Change and trauma like this, examining the why’s and how’s, is like peeling an onion. Just when you think you’re done, there’s another layer that pops out to be processed.

I knew it wasn’t exactly wise to date anyone from that group, but I did date a couple of the men. One guy was a bit spooky in that his house was immaculate and his cat was obedient, never leaving the kitchen, and staying in his appointed spot. Cats don’t normally do that. I am not tidy and my cats had the run of my house, so I decided to nip this one in the bud.

The other man I dated in the group was cute and funny. We were friends for probably a year before we dated, both of us realizing that we should have kept it that way, but hormones took over. His ex-wife was also in the group. He said that they divorced because she didn’t want sex. What I know now is that he was a serial cheater. He cheated on her, he cheated on me, and on several other women after me.

I tried meeting men in social groups, online, in interest groups, at concerts, you name it. I had one semi-serious boyfriend for a tad over three years starting four years after the divorce. That was the same year my ex, who said he didn’t want to be married anymore when we split, you guessed it, got remarried.

The semi-serious boyfriend, “Dave,” was a sweet man. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. But he had an imaginary protective wall around him so thick that it was almost visible. When I started dating him, a mutual acquaintance literally said, “Good luck getting through that wall.” I really did try. We were on again-off again so many times that my friends didn’t believe me when we finally did break up. He was like an addiction, and I don’t mean it in a good way.

After Dave and I broke up shortly before my 51st birthday, it was a long drought. I was on three dating sites. It seemed that the men I was meeting were looking for someone to cook and clean for them (I am not a domestic goddess), had little interest in sex or intimacy (yes, there’s a difference), or weren’t available emotionally.

I’d been told by my more mystically inclined friends that I should have items in my house that invited a relationship into my life. Depictions of couples, hearts, whatever conjured the image in my mind and heart of being with someone. I tried this with multiple items, to no avail.

Fast Forward.

In 2014, I broke two parts of my body. In March, I was in a car accident that broke my left hand, between my pinky and ring finger. My surgeon had no bedside manner, but she was excellent. With therapy, I regained all function.

Three months later, at the end of June, a worker in my home beckoned me downstairs to see his work. Unfortunately, he left a large hose hidden on a step, so when I came down, I turned my ankle on it and broke it!

I was scheduled to go to Europe for the first time in the third week of September. Fortunately, I got out of the boot brace in eight weeks, did my physical therapy like a demon, and was able to hobble around London, Vienna, and then Dubrovnik. I was even able to walk the full circumference of the old wall in Dubrovnik. Yes, the views of the old city and the sea are gorgeous. Bonus: You get to see residents’ backyards, laundry, and cats. Slices of life in Croatia.

That trip was very strange. I will write about my travel companions such as they were, and the itinerary, which I didn’t plan, another time. Let’s just say that I learned from this to choose my travel companions more carefully.

I found my way, often on my own. I explored museums, architecture, art galleries, and shops. In Dubrovnik, I enjoyed some delicious solo meals at sidewalk cafes and sat at an almost empty outdoor restaurant with a view. I also dipped my body into the Adriatic Sea.

An art gallery on the main plaza drew me in more than once because of the prints of a famous former resident, Jovan Obican, who died in 1986.

I was told he was half Jewish and most of the prints in the gallery were of different scenes of a Jewish wedding. The one I loved the most, at first, didn’t seem to be following the same storyline. People were flying over the city on magic carpets. There was Dubrovnik and the sea below, with joyous people and birds flying above in groups, including lively musicians. It was colorful. It made me happy. That print drew me back to the gallery several times, so of course, I purchased it.

When I got home, I put it up at the end of my upstairs hallway. It was maybe then, maybe later, that I realized the people on the carpets were a wedding party! Oh, well, I thought. I guess it’s a new symbol of relationship for the house.

About 10 days after I got back from the trip, a man contacted me on a dating site called Plenty of Fish. It was a free site and had been effectively worthless. All the men I messaged with or met were odd at best. They almost all lied about something — age, height, employment, or the picture was old. I realize many people lie in their profile, but this site was epic for that. One strange fellow actually pulled out a huge bag of coupons on our only date to find one for that particular restaurant. He wasn’t going to pay anything unless he had a coupon for it.

So, my plan on returning from Europe was to cancel that site and move on. However, since I’d been contacted one more time, I agreed to meet the man. He suggested meeting at a coffee shop he knew in my city though he lived 40 miles away. He, of course, didn’t know I lived eight blocks from there. But easy for me, in case this was another dud.

The meeting was uneventful, though I thought I recognized him. He wasn’t a kook, anyway. A refreshing change. It wasn’t until we hugged goodbye that sparks flew.

Turned out, we had met before, at a Halloween party, three years earlier. He was with a buddy, and they were both in relationships at the time, so my friend and I said, “OK, bye.” But we remembered them. Andy remembers the party, but not meeting me there. His buddy didn’t remember us either. That’s probably because they weren’t looking for anyone at the time. As cliche as it sounds, timing really is everything.

Andy texted me a lot after the coffee shop, which was a bit much. But for some reason, I didn’t cut him off. After so many years of nothing, I was skeptical but also curious.

I agreed to meet him again. Our first actual date was driving up a mountain pass, parking, and making out (I know, not the wisest). Neither of us could hike at that point, me because of the ankle, he because he needed a knee replacement. We were both 62, so we understood the failing body issues.

We were exclusive for seven years, with him mostly visiting me because my cat doesn’t travel. He even gave me a promise ring within the first year to keep me off the market. I bought one for him, too. We figured we’d just keep it a separate living relationship, as it seemed to work pretty well. We even traveled pretty well together — to Paris, then London, plus Yosemite, Yellowstone, and Glacier National Parks.

And then came Covid.

Many things happened during COVID, especially the two of us spending a lot more time together alone. We grew closer. Circumstances at his house were such that it was uncomfortable there. He had a tenant living downstairs who was downright dangerous, saying she had symptoms of COVID, practically banging down doors, drinking, calling the cops for no reason, and making it difficult for him to stay in his own house. She also stopped paying rent immediately when the moratoriums hit and she could get away with it. She had the money. She just chose to spend it on beer and Ubers to the liquor store.

After a couple of months of this, it was recommended to us that we try to get a restraining order, which because of COVID and some luck, was granted.

After that was resolved, we made some huge decisions.

We decided that I would move in with him and started the process. His house was bigger and newer, I was retired, and he was still working, so it made sense.

I sold my house of 38 years in June of 2021. That meant a ton of downsizing, which I’d already been trying to do for years. Frankly, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move because I had so much stuff! But this was the motivation I needed to pare it down. It was tough moving further away from friends, but I still see the true ones.

Then, we got married. We held a relatively small wedding in August that year, outside, in the backyard of a friend’s house which was absolutely perfect. There were gardens, art, and the gazebo where we could play our music, including Andy’s original love songs,* after the dinner.

My family watched via Zoom, as did friends who lived far away. It was a windy day, but not too hot. Our host is a practicing Catholic, but her mother was Jewish. She insisted that we have a Jewish wedding. The Rabbi stood directly in front of an alcove that houses a statue of the Virgin Mary, so another brilliant Catholic friend who was helping with the wedding preparations covered the Virgin with plants. The Rabbi would never know…besides, Mother Mary was Jewish, right?

The Dubrovnik print now hangs over one wall of our fireplace, between the kitchen and the music room, so I still see it every day.

What brought us together?

The fact that we both had given up on that dating site? You see, Andy, too, was about to cancel it because no one he contacted before me actually wanted to meet in person.

Was it the numerology prediction that I’d fall in love again in my 60s?

Or was it that print of the magic carpet ride over Dubrovnik?

*Andy copyrighted and recorded several of his love songs for me, as well as some others. On this song, I Got You, I’m on ukulele bass and harmonies. Our amazing producer did the fancy guitar work. There are 8 songs on that album, Whatever It Takes, available on streaming sites under Kones 52, as well as right there on YouTube on Andy’s page.

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