Yo. It's been a bit since I've been here. I've been occupied with work, my rockin' boyfriend, a visit from my ma, a visit from Jess, and my first 30-day Bikram challenge! It's about time, right? I've been yoga-ing for nine years and sweating at Bikram for the last three and a half, but I'd yet to do "a challenge." And though it may be the most basic and shortest challenge, at least I've finally got a 30 in 30 under my yoga belt. And now—on to 60!
The other night, after my 29th class in 29 days, I was in Jim's kitchen with him and his older son, an accomplished and hilarious 19-going-on-30-year-old. The scene kinda cracked me up. Instead of scarfing cereal for dinner as you might expect, Jim's teenager was sautéing teriyaki chicken and rice. And my boyfriend was making bread. The kitchen was spotless, and I'd just followed Jim around the house as he put away laundry. These fellas have no need of a woman. My guy is unnervingly good at being a single dad. He loves the hell out of his children and makes quality kid-time top-priority. He uses automatic vacuums. He orders his nonperishable groceries online. (Hey, Evangeline, you could say he's an efficienist too!) And what really impresses me is that Jim does all this while maintaining a demanding job that supports his kidlings and our former spouses. This sir has his shit all the way together.
On top of that, he's absurdly likable. My family has sucked Jim right in. When I make plans to head to Utah, the first response is, “So are you bringing Jim?" My dad and brothers-in-law, Nick and Jon, had my boyfriend join them on a boys-only trip. You know, golfing, eating, gambling—man things. Jim returned to Reno giggling over newly-forged inside jokes like a school kid. My people dig him.
I see how it could appear to outsiders that I date Jim out of vengeance for the exes and/or an inability to just let go. But good grief, the exes are the downside of dating Jim. I wish they'd just figure out how to live their lives without continually effing with my boyfriend and his tough kids. The horrifically unproofread emails crafted with no other purpose than to screw with him and the innocent kidlings are too many and too frequent.
It confuses me that people would plot how to make things more difficult for a man who funds their lives. If you depend on someone for your livelihood, wouldn't you do everything in your power to make their life less painful rather than more? If the exes ever get married, it wouldn't be unreasonable to bet that The Wasband will take Jim's last name instead of Carrie taking Romo.
I wrote a bit ago about the name Iris. It was what the Wasband and I liked for a daughter if ever we ended up with one. I intimated that perhaps he and his new lady had employed that name for something. Not a baby—the Wasband really, really wanted one of those, but in choosing a woman who is elderly and spayed, he has drastically reduced the odds that his seed will enter the world. No, they got a puppy and named it Iris. Rather pathetic, yes? Well, cats and kittens, it gets better. Or worse. I didn't tell you the full name that el Wasband and I had come up with for the theoretical girlchild. I didn't think it was relevant. I was wrong. The full name was Iris Etta, named for my mother, Susan Etta. And what did Wasband name his girlfriend's dog? Yes, Iris Etta.
Dude, maybe we weren't clear. So let me be now: we. don't. want. you. Let go of the Peterson family. Now you're just a punchline that gets funnier and funnier. Even my eight-year-old nephew has said that we will now refer to my ex as “The Evil One.”
What is it that possesses me to make public my thoughts and details of the Infidelity Fallout? Two things—first, writing is my method of dealing, and I paid a fair chunk of change to learn how to write for public consumption. And second, when something gets me excited or riled up, I'm the kind that shares and shares. Yoga, IUDs, they get me all impassioned, so I talk and write about them lots. The affair, subsequent divorce, and acquisition of a rad boyfriend who was married to my ex's distraction are collectively the most significant event(s) that have ever happened to/around me, so I talk about them, talk through them. Even while it was all underway, when I was miserably mired in the thick of It, I said that I would one day write the details of my marital demise, and I use blogging as my brainstorming: passable sloppy writing and telling that prep me for pointed essays that will come later. So, well, here we are.