LOST: WORDS

While I can’t conceive of being more happily married than I am now—the bliss I feel actually has a color; I can see it. It’s that saffrony color but more gentle and it’s also a dusky blue and it's cobalt, actually my ecstasy is all the colors, even ones that I’ve never seen; they're in order, out of order, tinting stuff that used to be in grayscale—even though I've got all of that, sometimes my sense of loss is overwhelming. Even though this, my new marriage, is weighty and important and came about by way of things like signatures and witnesses and includes cohabitation, sometimes I feel like the affair is the only thing that’s ever happened to me. 

I can’t figure out how to write around the damn thing. The loss I feel and mourn so certainly isn’t for the ex-husband. I’m glad for that. The loss I feel is for the ability to write and confidence that I could do it well.  

When the affair happened and the marriage cracked, tritely put, splitting the one back into two, I forgot how to do the things I knew. No, I just couldn’t do them anymore. Before the merger started dissolving I was writing so much. I felt fluid in my design work. The words and the images came easily enough. But then the affair and then nothing. At a low point when the rise and fall of my chest seemed just too hard and I wondered where I’d gone, my mom assured me that the me I knew wasn’t dead, that I’d be myself again. I’d again be able to do all the things I was proud of being able to do before. I’d even be able to put away the clothes strewn through my room.

A year later I conceded that she had been right. I could pick up my clothes and do the dishes again. I could feed myself more than Swedish Fish. I could build muscle instead of lose it. I noted those points of progress and thought, “Okay, she was right. I’m me again.” But in acknowledging and celebrating those triumphs, I forgot about the other things. The words and the pictures. Those things still haven’t come back.

With the artwork what’s gone is the impetus, even a slim desire. I don’t have it. Before, I was compelled to take fonts and words and make them marvelous together. I could put together a decent logo. I don’t at all want do to any of that anymore. My drug career helps; I can use it to fill the spaces of time that I used to use to design things that people hang on their walls.

And with the writing, well, I feel like that’s just gone because I can’t figure out how to write anything that doesn’t have to do with the damn affair. Somehow my fingers on keys think that it’s my only story, and while I’m not opposed to writing that story and I’m interested in how my tone in writing that story has shifted, I’m tired of it. I’m tired of writing that story. When I think that I need to be writing I can’t figure out where to start because I don’t have subject matter anymore. Greedy, bloated, and moaning, the infidelity ate all my other stories. 

There was such a clear break. On June 28th in 2012 I could write and write and write and my writing was working. But after that day, after finding out about the cheating? There’s nothing. Yes, I’m back to being able to keep the house tidy and I can eat normal food. But Mom, where’s the rest of me? Will that come back too? Is it just gone? Were those tens of thousands of dollars on a Masters degree designed to teach me how to artfully string words together a waste? Because I just don’t know how to do that anymore, and it leaves me lost. I don’t want all the time I spent on school to have been naught more than a costly lark. I was supposed to do something with all this word stuff. I can’t even figure out how to be creative in an email. Dammit, I used to have words and they aren’t there anymore.

So I land here: while losing my first husband was the single best thing that has ever happened to me—dead weight lost, I was left open for a happiness that I couldn’t have sketched up in a dream—the fallout of the infidelity, those months of ache and mourning and hope and hell, stole completely my talent and my drive. I'm in therapy. Emotionally, I've been good at moving on from the affair garbage. It's my writing that won't progress or even come back to me, really. I’m mourning that loss and sort of waiting for its resurrection. But just waiting won’t do it. I have to actively pursue the writing. I have to write in order to be able to write. But I can’t avoid writing about the affair and that’s just not what I want to do right now. So, stuck. And lost.

WINGING IT

I love The West Wing. The icky ex and I fell into that series about eight years ago, and over time it became our collective fave. If you can find someone who has seen each episode more than I have, I will give you a one hundred dollar bill. That’s not a joke. To say those characters became my friends wouldn't be out of line. Hell, you could even say they were family. I’d play that show like other people play music. It accompanied me while I ironed my hair, while I did expense reports, while I cooked, and lots of times when the wasband and I turned in for the night. Trite yet true: The West Wing became the music of my life.

So when the marriage died, I had to break up with my favorite show. It was painful to even consider watching the thing. President Bartlett, CJ, Toby—they’d belonged to us both. So as a step in my proactive convalescence after the disaster marriage's demise, I trashed the well-worn boxed set of all seven seasons and the back-up copy(ies).

Though I soon missed my TV people, sating the pining wasn't compelling enough to dredge up the post-marital distress that came with 'em.

But you know something?—little by little, we get better. And one night I sent Jim this text:

Guess what I’m watching?

Food TV? (The man knows me.)

The West Wing!

He was suitably shocked. Jim knew that I’d loved the show and that I missed it but that if I was going to make any headway in healing from the infidelity bullshit, it was necessary that to I ditch it. Time passed though. My heart was happy like it had never been before. We heal. We do get better.

The West Wing is just a TV show—I should be embarrassed by how much I love it (though I’m not)—but being able to listen to that series again was a considerable marker of my recovery from the affair and divorce. I don’t think of Mark when the show plays. I’m not sad. I don’t experience those old feelings of rejection and I don’t get overcome with the sting of betrayal. Instead I just enjoy the sounds of the show emitting from my phone while I iron my hair, while I do expense reports, while I cook, and sometimes at night while I wait for Jim to finish tucking in the kidlings. It’s back: that old music of my life.

As he is prone to do, my Jim-guy indulged me. He watched the show’s pilot episode. I perched next to him on the couch, bare feet tucked between the cushions, heart a little quicker, hoping hoping hoping that he’d like it. Kind of like taking him to his first yoga class, I was anxious for this VIP to enjoy something I love.

He did. He does.

While I consider it sacrilege of the gravest form to compare yoga to a damn TV show, I’m gonna keep rolling with it. Much like I knew Jim wasn’t doing yoga just for me when he first went to class while out of town on a business trip, I knew he was watching the show for his own enjoyment when he told me that he loved/hated me for the introduction. In total The West Wing series is over 100 hours. A noteworthy (and worthy) commitment. He’s hooked. I didn’t ask for it and I couldn’t have expected it, thus making it an apt illustration of our union.

There, I did it again. I made the comparison between something very significant and my attachment to a damn TV series, demonstrating exactly how much I love it.

(And given that Jim’s schedule only allows for fifteen minutes of an episode every other day or so, it’s going to take him a helluva long time to get through President Bartlett’s second term. Don't pity the man though. He’ll relish every exquisitely-scripted moment.)

COURTING

I haven’t posted in three weeks. Been a busy girl. Yoga, of course. My friend, Tanya, has introduced me to aerial silks, and that bug’s bit me hard. Jim’s going to hang silks of my own in my—wait for it—living room. (It’s my house, for heaven’s sake. I can hang whatever I want wherever I want.) I’ve been throwing myself at my drug job. And I’ve been writing lots and lots, just not on here.

I was talking with my mom the other day and she said, “You’ll be here soon,” (My sister, Cat’s, new babe Walt is getting blessed in a week, and I’m off to the ‘Tah for it.) “so we can catch up. There’s been a lot going with you since we last talked.”

“Actually, I think you’re up to speed,” I told her, “I have a boyfriend I love. He has kids. It’s complicated.”

That really is the story, but I will fill in a few in-between bits—

On the boyfriend: I’m stupid, silly in love. We are pathetic. It’s adorable. And annoying, I’m sure. I love everything about him, right down to the shape of his head. I am finally able to trust that he will see things through; he has always done what he said he would, but it took a long time for me to be able to believe that a partner could follow-up. His legs look like something Renaissance sculptors would chisel out of marble. The only accurate descriptor that I can come up with for how that man kisses is YOWZA!

All good things.

But there is a sad thing regarding Jim. My sweetheart’s dad died a week ago. Though it’s a rotten loss, I know Jim has enjoyed being able to see all his sisters, brothers-in-law, and other family folk a lot this last week. And the viewing was a sight to see. (That was a strange sentence.) Shirl, Jim’s dad, was the quintessential 49er fan. So we all wore 49ers gear to the viewing. (Yes, even me. I now own a 49ers t-shirt. That’s weird.) The room was a sea of red. After the sad but lovely event, Jim, kidlings (sans Dustin; the boy was missed), and I went for froyo:

I swear Ben was having a good time. In the photo I took right before this one he was giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up, but Katelynn's eyes were closed, so I went with this one. 

That photo is just moments before I dropped my frozen yogurt face-down on the floor. Gravity put me on a diet.

Court happened too. I mentioned that Thing One and Thing Two subpoenaed me. It was about this blog. As part of a convoluted case wherein they ended up being required to pony up the child care costs they refused to pay Jim and got slapped for refusing to tell Jim who is watching his kids when they’re not with The Inconsequentials, the exes were trying to get me to stop writing about them. Mean words. Hurt feelings. No shit. God bless The First Amendment. It got in their way a little bit. Holla holla free speech.

But don’t think they’re the only ones who got their asses handed to them. Regarding this blog, both Jim and I got it from the judge. Listen, I’ve had some really venomous moments on here, there’s no denying that, but it’s been part of my working-through process. There was a story I needed to tell. I told it in the way that best suited my feelings at the time of writing. The judge, a truly fair judge, said that things I’ve written about the affair/divorce are poisonous. He also said my writing’s like heroin. You can’t stop coming back for more. (Okay, that may not be what he meant with the heroin reference.) And then he told Carrie that if she doesn’t like what I’m writing, to not read it and to remember that she did, after all, have an affair with my husband and then marry him.

When we were out at dinner after the hours of court, I told Jim, “That was a seriously fun date.” I meant it. The circumstances were lousy, sure, but I learned things, got to see our terrible exes get reprimanded, and I got to hear the judge read aloud in court the mean names I’ve called Carrie on this blog. Here is where Thing One and Thing Two miscalculated—I really liked getting reamed for what I’ve written. It was a sort of dream come true. Here’s why: something I wrote got under my targets’ skin such that they ended up paying thousands of dollars to an attorney in order to fight about it.

I admit that there are times I’ve gone too far. I am constantly honest on here, and the times I’ve gone too far were my truth at the moment. I am not taking down or changing posts where I’ve pushed it too much, because the vehemence in those posts are part of the story. Sometimes I’ve been so angry or so hurt that those feelings have dominated the tone of what I wrote. That tone is where I was then, regrettable or otherwise. Here’s where I am now: I hope they shape up. Apparently Mark got a job, which is astonishing and wonderful. Jim’s minor kids spend 50% of their time with the exes; it would be nice if Jim wasn’t the kids’ only up-close male example of work ethic and effort to provide for a family. That’s a step in the right direction, and it’s the first one those two have made in a really long time. Jim and I hope there are more to come.

OWNING UP

The thing that most readers find appealing about this blog is that I don’t sugarcoat things or hide stuff. So lemme throw it all out there—

The truth: I physically cringed when I clicked Publish on my By Any Other Name post. As I sent that post to the public, I told Jim, “Crap. This time I’ve gone too far.” I’d already read him what I wrote before publishing, and he replied, “Not really. It could be worse.” But I was hesitant about that post because up until that point I hadn’t really attacked Carrie ad hominem. Usually I’d just lay out facts that didn’t put her or Mark in a flattering light because of the shit choices they made. In that post, however, I got catty.

My practice has mostly been to let the infidelity story itself do the damning, but then I decided to get spiteful, and, honestly, it wasn’t one of my finer moments.

While I do lay claim to a certain amount of intelligence, I don’t profess to have fantastic judgement. It’s like this: if I eat a bunch of chocolate cake I know I’ll regret it and end up repenting for a week. But I’m human. I want the cake. So I eat the cake. This was that. I knew I shouldn’t. But I wanted to. So I did.

I got attacked right back. It’s bound to happen from time to time. I’ve been [perhaps overly] feisty my whole life. This ain’t my first rodeo, and I do understand consequences.

On that blog post, some commenters with fake names went to town on me under the guise of caring for the innocent kids involved. (I’m not going to repost the comments here because they’re really damn long, but I strongly suggest you click over to read them. This post will make more sense that way.) And whatever. Really. Personally, I’ve been back and forth about my blog and its potential affect on the kids. Their mother made some horrible choices and I tell the world all about it. Dustin knows I write a blog. He’s not interested in reading it. I think Katelynn knows, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t care either. And the only way the two littles would know what’s on this space is if Thing One and Thing Two showed them.

When Jim and I began dating and I’d say something in conversation disparaging about Carrie, I’d stop and apologize, saying, “I’m sorry. She’s the mother of your children. I shouldn’t insult her.” His responses would go something like, “Rock on. She effed up your life.” He has never tried to decide for me what I should think and say. 

When I started blogging about all this affair/divorce nonsense, Jim and I talked about if it was okay. Until he got a feel for what I was writing, before publishing I’d read to him the posts that had directly to do with him or his kids or his ex and get his buy-in. But it was never him “allowing” me to post things. It was a courtesy for me to show him. I wanted us to be on the same page. We are. And that means that sometimes we make mistakes together. It means that sometimes I make a mistake and need to apologize to him. Which I did when I realized that in posting the By Any Other Name post, I'd done a not-terrific thing. He said that when I read him the post he knew that it wasn’t a great idea for me to be malicious, but didn’t express any concerns, because, well, he wanted to eat the cake too.

Mark is crap. Everyone agrees about this. But there are times that I’m harder on Carrie because it pisses me off that she gets very little blame for her actions. People condemn Mark for the affair and subsequent splits. They say that Carrie was mentally sick, that she couldn’t be held totally responsible when Mark was so aggressive and persuasive. That’s more than I can handle. While, yeah, Mark screwed up, he is only directly responsible for leaving me. Carrie left more than a spouse; she left her kids. But because she is a weak personality people just let it go and blame everything on my ex. Her responsibilities were more significant than his, but she gets a pass, and it infuriates me. 

(Hey Carrie, if you want your old life back, all you’ll have to do is “get help” and your entire previous world will open their arms up wide to take you in, because they feel bad that you got tricked by a serpent named Romo when you didn’t have the mental strength to resist. It’s right then that I will slip into a coma and die.)

As for Carrie being “drop dead gorgeous,” that’s a matter of opinion. The other night after I saw her at a church thing I told Jim that it does amazing things for my crummy self esteem to see his ex-wife. “It makes me feel super hot,” I said. Which is actually a good thing in my progress. When I was dealing with the fact that my husband was leaving me for another woman, I really struggled with the looks thing simply because Carrie and I couldn’t look more different. He went for my exact opposite.

And then there was the issue of size. I’ve got problems in my head when it comes to weight. I’m up front about that. I travel with a damn scale, for heaven’s sake. I’ve always seen skinny as superior. The skinnier the better. And Carrie’s a twig.

Listen, I’m little. Not many people are smaller. But my husband went and found, like, the only person who was smaller than me. Is there anything that could make me feel fatter? (For all I know Mark left me for a flat lower belly. I’ve never seen Carrie’s abdomen, but I know that my gut is capital-D disgusting.) So in Mark going for her, my head problems told me that I was gigantic and grotesque. Which rationally, I know isn’t true. However, this isn't a rational thing for me. Numbers-wise, I’m little—I tried on clothes yesterday and a 0P was too big—but in my messed up head, I’m elephantine. While I hate my body’s shape and will never give up my futile battle against it, the facts say that I’m anything but fat.

So it was a point of progress when I saw how skinny Carrie was the other night and was still able to say to Jim, “Damn, I’m hot.” There’s a mess of improvement combined with regression there. My therapist would be glad that I was able to see past thinness and would be terribly disappointed that I am still stuck giving a damn about Jim’s ex. I doubt that will ever wholly go away since I was married for ten years and my husband picked her over me. You think I can get past making comparisions? Maybe someday. But not yet.

One commenter said that my blogging isn’t the action of someone trying to get healthy after affair fallout, and my therapist would agree. I’m not totally healthy anyhow. Sometimes I am working really hard at getting healthy. But sometimes I get tired of it, trip over the high road, and end up lambasting Thing One and Thing Two beyond what I know is reasonable. Whoops. And it doesn’t make me happy. I know that. I write something that’s hateful and dangerous and post it and I know it’ll put me in a bad mood and make Them more of conversation than they merit. Yeah, I admit it’s not the actions of someone actively healing.

This last Sunday I curled up on Jim and cried into his shoulder. “I’m sorry your husband cheated and left you,” he said as he rubbed my back. I cried harder. No matter where I go or what I do or how I change, my history will always include the fact that I’m a girl who got left. There are instances where I choose to let that make me stronger. Other times I let it make me rotten.

I’m abrasive and often too honest. It'd be lunacy to think that everyone is gonna land on my side. There are crazies out there, and we can’t discount the validity of their opinions. I think that’d be discrimination.

I also got accused of narcissism, and that can’t be entirely wrong. Writing on a personal blog is its own form of being narcissistic. These are my thoughts, my life. Writing on here can be self-absorbing. I think where my blogging diverges from true narcissism is the self-love and admiration thing. That’s not my bag; I’m more into self-flagellation. It can be a problem.

So there you have the truth that you show up for. I did something unadvisable and I know it. I’m healthy sometimes and sometimes not. I'm bull-headed. I’m smart but can make poor choices. I am insecure and a careful reading of my egocentric blog makes that obvious. I’m in love with a man I got to know under unfortunate circumstances, and collaborating with him brings me joy. He makes me feel more beautiful than I am. He makes me laugh harder than anyone else ever has. And a truth perhaps not often apparent here but terribly important if we’re focusing on honesty: even though I’ll always be a girl who was a wife who got dumped in favor of another lady, my life is more than that. I have a big, messy family that is constantly growing and who I miss all the time. I have friends who care about me more than I deserve. I am part of a yoga community that makes me a better, more interesting person. I have adventures. There was even one day this week where I had lunch at a whorehouse. Now, that was weird.

•••

As for you, Annie, I find you impressive. Your responses were thoughtful and written better than I could have done. Like I’ve said before, I’m grateful that my sharing all this garbage is useful to you and others. Thanks for not being anonymous.

Fake Name Commenter Guy, regarding the part where you called me beef jerky, that was a total crack up because it was so accurate! When I read the comment I’d just come from back-to-back Bikram yoga classes. I was shriveled ‘cause I’d just sweat out all my moisture. My fingers were pruney. I was literally dehydrated meat! And smelly? Oh, absolutely. If you sniffed the yoga stuff drying in my garage you’d puke or pass out. I work hard for that, and I swear that since my divorce my sweat has started to smell worse. I think it’s liquid hate seeping out of my pores, and there’s no way that has a nice fragrance.

That said, if you want to insult me, don’t go the meat route. I’m a vegetarian, so that’s not relevant enough to hurt. If you really want to get under my skin, call me fat. Even if it isn’t true, I’ll believe you, go on some severe diet, and damage my organs. Calling me fat would be way more effective than saying Carrie is a piece of steak and I’m jerky.

Hey, and high five on the fake names. They’re a lot more creative than what I would have come up with in your situation. I probably would have used stuff like Huck Fun, Temperance Brennan, Ender Wiggins, or Darth Vader. Yours were almost believable.

BY ANY OTHER NAME

My last name is quite the conversation starter. Everyone has an opinion. Still. I've been divorced for more than a year, and I'm still asked constantly if I'm maintaining Romo as my surname.

On this blog sometime in early 2013, I mentioned in passing that I'd be keeping Romo, but I didn't delve much into it. I didn't think it was a thing. Apparently it is. Most people can't understand why I'd want to keep "Mark's last name" and my retort, "but it's not 'his'; it's mine now" hasn't been good enough.

The one person who understood immediately and without a word of explanation from me was Jim's 19-year-old son Dustin, who, it should be said, isn't one of Mark's fans, seeing as my ex-husband had an affair with his mother that ended up fracturing Dustin's family. In conversation one night when my last name came up yet again, and the question was the usual one, "Why in the world wouldn't you go back to your maiden name?" I didn't have to answer. Dustin jumped in and did it for me, and the gist of his dead-on answer was this:

I've built a career with that name. It's under this name that I've spent all my adult life. I have email addresses and a URL and a graduate diploma with this name. I am this person: Megan Romo.

Sure, I can have all that changed, but my name is mine, and it doesn't offend me. And, as Dustin said, most people who can't understand why I am so attached to my name as it is don't have careers and searchable accomplishments where they are known by a specific name. If you're not sure what I mean, google "Megan Romo."

Then there's this: words and letters arranged into sounds and cadences matter to me. I like the flow of "Megan Romo." I never liked my maiden name, Peterson. None of the girls in my family do. Name-wise, we all believe we married into upgrades (or in Mally's case a lateral shift). Even my mom sees Peterson for the bummer that it is. She liked her maiden name Samson better and is happy it lives on in my sister, Cat's, son, Samson.

All this doesn't mean that we don't appreciate the Peterson name. We love and honor the people on that side of the family. Just because I think Peterson sucks doesn't mean I don't appreciate and love my dad, the man from whom that name came. It's not the name that made the man. And along that same thread, my keeping Romo isn't some tribute to the loser off whom I got it. This name is mine. I adopted it. I'm keeping it.

And that is something special that Carrie and I get to share now. When she married my ex, Mark Romo, she changed her name from that of her children—Elliker—to Romo. So now we have even more in common! For a few months, we shared a man (only one of us was in the know about that though, and it sure wasn't me), and now we share a last and middle name.

I'm Megan Lynn Romo.

She's Carrie Lynn Romo.

It's like we're sister wives! 

I'm the bright wife with a job, a graduate degree (though admittedly in liberal arts and therefore pretty worthless), a vocabulary with polysyllabic words, wit, a birthday in the 80s, decency, a right to self-respect, and an honorable man as mine. And she's the dim wife with the downgraded significant other, fake boobs, a penchant for country music, half her children half the time, no hobbies and thus nothing to do during the day, a bad back, no ass, and a truly laughable, trying-too-hard-and-failing-miserably, stylish-perhaps-eight-years-ago, and-firmly-rooted-in-Reno taste in clothes.

PUTTING THE FUN BACK IN FUNDS

Since Jim will never be rid of me—not that he wants to be—I will never be rid of the loose, selfish woman who banged my husband or that poser to whom I was married for 10 years.  Strangely—even though I see them as two of the most disgusting people polluting Planet Earth—that didn't get in my way. Or perhaps it's not strange at all when you consider how good Jim is to me, what a catch he is. The man makes me all girlish and swoony. I've known from our start that dating Jim meant that Carrie, the floozy who had an affair with my spouse, would be a permanent fixture in my life, seeing as she and Jim have kids together, and Carrie is still dependent on him for all the funds to pay for her life.

And since she is the Wasband's meal ticket, there's no getting rid of him either. That is, until he finds a woman better able to provide for him. Which may be sooner than later, Dear Reader, because Carrie just lost nearly half of her monthly income.

See, my ex and my boyfriend's ex—the ones that had an affair with each other, in case you're new 'round here—just got married, thus ending Jim's obligation to pay them $2,500/mo. in alimony.

You just gasped. You may have cheered. And if you're anything like our friends and family, your first fully-formed thought in regard to the nuptials had to do with Jim's wallet. Everyone we know is so happy for my boyfriend, since even though he's the one who got cheated on, he's had to continue providing the livelihood for his ex. When it comes to the alimony part of things, that's over now, and, quite honestly, we wonder how they are going to live on the $3000-some-odd that Jim's still stuck forking over to them each month (child support, etc.). Neither one has a job and there are some very expensive tastes in that relationship.

(On that, curious minds want to know what kind of ring Carrie bought for herself. Well, that's probably not fair; maybe Mark saved up his weekly allowance of Jim's money that Carrie gave him so that he could purchase the ring "himself.")

Now, don't let yourselves believe that their marriage means those two have some kind of commitment to one another that will increase their relationship's longevity. Marital promises certainly didn't get in their way before.

That being said, I'm just so happy for them. Thrilled. Elated. Dizzy with joy on their behalf. Wishing them the buckets of happiness that they certainly merit. So I thought and thought of what could be an appropriate wedding gift for that loafing failure and his elderly tramp. It was my friend Lara though who came up with the best idea: a referral to a divorce attorney! It's only a matter of time before the once-a-cheater-always-a-cheater exes will need that wedding gift.

So any bets on how long the ill-fated and dishonorably-started union will last?

•••

Oh, and Mark and Carrie, you nitwits, although you had the subpoena served to me before class at the yoga studio, today's was a killer practice. I worked hard, sweat buckets, executed one of my better standing bows, and came out feeling powerful. And, bummer again, no one witnessed the very nice man give me the papers. Don't worry though, when I got in the studio, I made sure to loop in my friends.

HOW DO YOU SAY . . .

Welcome to the divorce blog. Evidently, that’s 90% of my content here. Fortunately, the feedback is good. So I’ll just keep on entertaining y’all with the drama that is my life. Let’s just say that it’s a part of my healing process. There’s recovery to be done, and I’m doing it. 

Truth be told, I feel like I should be totally “recovered” by now. On December 3rd—tomorrow— I will have been divorced for a year, for heaven’s sake. I’ve historically been a early achiever, so that should apply to this too, right? Unfortunately, there are deeper-seated issues. In therapy I mostly deal with stuff that doesn’t have much to do with the infidelity nonsense directly, stuff like how I take independence to a stupid level and that my self-talk is so mean it’d make Satan weep. But even though it’s not divorce stuff that hampers me, it is the stuff that I enjoy blogging about. I like using my misfortune to entertain people. As a bonus, some folks find this saga useful in their own lives. (Yes, Dear Reader, it could happen to you. It really could.)

I love letting people in on how Jim and I came to be dating the hell out of each other. (My husband, Mark, was Jim's best friend. He had an affair with Jim's wife, Carrie. Mark and Carrie ran off together. We are all divorced now. Jim and my ex are no longer best friends, or friends at all. Instead, I get Jim to be my best friend.)  Telling that little story is, like, one of my top ten favorites things to do, right up there with eating candy, sleeping in on weekends, getting new yoga clothes, stepping on the scale and not discovering bad news, making mug cakes in the microwave, doing solid typography work, laughing with my sisters, and so on.

I bumble through my days hoping for the opportunity to tell someone about how I nabbed the boyfriend. It's a damned good tale. In fact, I told some medical assistant our story the other day and she said, “Hey, I saw that movie!” “Honey,” I replied, “I'm living that movie.”

Jim and I were talking about such when we got to thinking about what it’s like when our exes answer the how-did-you-get-together? question. So you meet someone new. You introduce your significant other. And, as conversation flows, the new person asks how you two met, how you hooked up.

Does my Wasband, Mark, answer truthfully and say, “Well, this little lady here was my best friend’s wife, and I wanted her, so I took her. I thought, ‘So what if she’s eight years older than me and fourteen older than my wife? So what if she’s got four kids who deserve better than having someone dishonorable like me in their lives? Any shred of morality aside, I want what I want, and I’m taking it!”

Hmm.

Does Boyfriend Jim's ex, Carrie, fess up: “Well, he was a married man, and I was like, ‘Puh-leeze! Who cares?’ so I told him I wanted to kiss him and then I left my four children, got a divorce, and we’ve been confused, fibbing about how unhappy we are, and shacked up ever since!”

Hmm once more.

So my darling and I doubt that our still unmarried exes tell the truth when answering that question. Instead, they will do the one thing they’re excellent at and lie some more.

He may say, “She was in an abusive marriage, and I had to help her get out.”

Of all the answers we’ve actually heard that they give, that’s our favorite, because it’s the funniest. Anyone, and I really do mean anyone, who knows Jim even little bit knows how utterly absurd that is. In fact, it’s so insane that we want them to use that answer here in Reno. See, Jim and I can’t go anywhere in town without running into someone he knows. And all those people like him. At every turn there is a friendly exchange. Everyone likes Jim. It is fact. And everyone knows he’s not abusive. So please, Mark and Carrie, try to pull that off. The failure will provide both my boyfriend and me endless hours of laughter.

Unfortunately though, it's also the kind of answer that will just push Carrie's older kids further and further away from her. Their four kids know the truth about their dad—how loving and kind he is—and it's not going to help mend relationships if their mother and her boyfriend are out spreading self-serving lies about their father. This makes Jim really sad. He tells me so.

As for what the Wasband would say about ending our marriage? Honestly, I can’t find anything interesting there. I was controlling? I was depressed? I was bored with him? Too busy for him? Any of it sounds lame and not nearly as interesting as someone trying to convince all of Jim-loving Reno that he was violent and abusive.

50 TIPS FOR A SUCCESSFUL MARRIAGE

My boyfriend and I have a 100% marital fail rate between us. So, feeling very qualified, I enlisted him to help me with a list of 50 marital tips.

I made a poster of our results:


Shortly after their honeymoon, Evangeline posted on Facebook some of the marriage advice that she and Andrew got at their wedding. That got me thinking about what I’d recommend, given that I am really good at being married and haven’t ever been divorced. Oh, wait. It’s the other way around. If you want advice on marriage, don’t come to me. I suck at it. However, the 50 tips that Jim and I came up at least verge on terrific.

When all the affair garbage went down last year, it killed my creativity. Slaughtered it. Couldn't write. Couldn't design. I had nothin'. Gradually though, we do get better, and those parts of myself have started to come back. I hate that it takes time, but at least it happens. I like that my first real design project since my marriage fell apart is about how to have a successful marriage. It makes no sense. And it does.

Poster available on Imagekind in a few color variations. 

If you need a gay version—Wife+Wife or Man+Man—instead of Man+Wife, email me (meganromo@gmail.com) and I’ll post it. Those versions are not up now because I’m lazy.

LEARNING LIES

The other night a friend asked me what went wrong with Mark’s first marriage. (Forget not that I am wife number two).

“I have no idea,” I replied, “I only know what he told me, and I’m pretty sure I can’t believe a whole lotta stuff he said.”

I was told that the first wife had Borderline Personality Disorder and wouldn’t medicate, that she physically attacked him and had to spend the night in jail. That might be true. It very well might not because of this one little truth: cheaters are liars. They have to be. Infidelity isn’t viable without omissions, half truths, and outright lies.

I’ve been learning recently that the Wasband’s misinformation campaign about me and our marriage started long before I discovered he was cheating on me with my now-boyfriend’s wife. I think it generally happens that way, but what’s unique about my post-affair/divorced life is that I get to learn about the all lies since my boyfriend Jim and my ex-husband Mark were besties. They spent hours sharing personal information (that Mark went on to use in playing a role in shattering Jim’s family).

Before he knew me as me, Jim thought I would be mean and self centered. It’s what he was told. Though I can be both of those things if I want to, they aren’t my character. I’m nasty as hell when someone has wronged a person I love. And I am not so much self-centered as I have a strong sense of self, the lack of which was the impetus for my husband cheating on me. He is 37, rents a room next door to his girlfriend’s house that was purchased outright with my boyfriend’s money, and he is still trying to find himself.

During their close friendship, Mark told Jim that I refused to have children because I didn’t want to ruin my perfect breasts. I’ve talked a lot on this blog about my thoughts on having kids and nowhere will you see a mention of destroying my perfect breasts, which, while bitsy, truly are an excellent example of God at His finest.

After my marital misfortunate reached its culmination, I learned that my marriage was in grave danger long before the affair came to light. I did know that the marriage had some opportunity areas, but I had alerted Mark that things would be tough during school, and I’d asked for his support while I got a Masters degree, ran a tidy graphic art side business, and held the full time job that paid our bills. I knew he wanted more attention, and I failed in that my priorities were off. I’m not taking blame for his choices, but they weren’t made in a vacuum, and I do take responsibility for myself, a thing that I know my boyfriend finds attractive because he has never seen it in a significant other. When I own up to error and apologize, he stares at me like I have sprouted horns and a beak, snacked on my sisters, and started singing show tunes all at once. The ‘rents done raised me good.

So while I knew that the marriage needed work, I was not aware that my husband had already thrown in the towel and been strategizing his exodus for months. 

When the Wasband told me via cross-country video chat that he was having an affair with Jim’s wife, I was wounded and appalled, but I wasn’t shocked. I could see how it happened. However, if my spouse had told me that he was leaving without another woman involved I would have been utterly dumbfounded. Leaving because of an affair could make sense because there was a carrot—a woman who was needy enough and had money enough to make it so neither of them had to get a job.

He had to have another woman in order to escape. He wasn’t strong enough to leave our marriage without piggybacking his way out. Sometimes a marriage isn’t going to work. I get that. But do the split cleanly. An affair is the coward’s egress from a relationship.

Prior to his infidelity there were arguments here and there, and Mark had threatened to leave a couple times—once over my not wanting kids and the other because I wasn’t interested in being as spiritual as he believed he was—but we always managed to figure it out. Or rather, like the dumbass I can sometimes be, I tried to be sincere about changing myself into what he wanted.

The real problem though was who I fundamentally am.

I have been consistent over the years, and my husband took issue with that. He knew what I was when he picked me up, but I suppose he thought I’d morph into someone else or that he could fix me into what he wanted: a barefoot stay-at-home mom who wasn’t interested in thinking for herself, didn’t travel, and wore her hair in pigtails. That just isn’t me or anyone I associate with (all my people—whether they be stay-at-home mas or not—think for themselves) Instead, I’m stuck with a career. I want more education. I have more pencil skirts that pairs of jeans and heels than ballet flats. My mornings aren’t oatmeal and packing lunches; they’re bagels on the way out the door and packing my yoga bag. And the biggest problem of all—I am independent.

I wanted my husband, but I didn’t need him. 

One of the post-affair times he “decided” to leave me Mark said, “You’re a stronger woman that Carrie. She’s weak. You’ll be fine without me. She won’t.”

I was raised to be a strong woman. Not angry-man-hating-feminist strong, but independent and an asset rather than a drag on the ticket. While I’m proud of that, it has some drawbacks. I’m not a crier, which can make me appear heartless. And apparently people need to feel needed. Shrink Nancy says that I un-needed myself out of a marriage. Thus while many people try to become independent, I am trying to learn to need, or, rather, to be okay with needing.

I’ve never wanted to be pregnant, to have a baby, to be a mommy. But what I did want was what was next for me and my husband, whatever we deemed that to be. A child? All right. Let’s do that and learn how to crush it. I could figure out how to be happy brainwashing a little someone. However what ended up being next for us was dissolution so that my husband could be with a woman who is no longer equipped to have the children he wanted.

Then, as now, the Wasband spends a lot of time lying. Lied to me. Lies to her. Lies to himself. He didn’t leave the marriage because he woke up one morning and didn’t recognize the wife laying next to him. He left because every time he looked in the mirror, he didn’t recognize himself. He didn’t leave because I’m not a mom. He went because he could no longer live with someone who knew what they wanted, who they are, and has vocabulary and guts enough to call a spade a spade.

This whole divorce thing, it was never about me. And I strongly suspect that dissolving the first marriage wasn't about her. Some people just can’t live with themselves, so they run from job to job and person to person, telling lie after lie, desperate for comfort in their own skin. But when one rotten choice follows another, the chances that contentment will come are essentially none. 

THE ART OF "WHY I LOVE YOU"

You’ve heard plenty about the crazy crap Mark did during the yes-no-yes-no time. A lot of it really hurt. But none of the things I’ve written about are the one thing that felt like the hardest slap. Here it is—

I sold a few thousand prints last year, and a couple hundred of them looked like this:

While words are sort of right up in wheelhouse, I was never good at using them to explain to my husband what it meant when I said that I loved him. Though he wanted me to spell it out, I never could. But one afternoon while making things at my computer I came up with that print.

“Don’t ask me why I love you. The way I know that I do is that I can’t put it into words.”

I was sure I loved him, but I couldn’t explain it. Since I'm the girl who can work out how to wrap words around most everything else I know, I figured that was how I knew that what I felt was love—it was the thing for which words just wouldn’t work. 

Because I suspected that I wasn’t alone in my inability to explain my feelings, I posted the print for sale, and through the numerous flash sales I did last year, other people were able to snap one up and “tell” their significant others what had before been inexplicable.

When Mark left Reno to move in with my parents in effort to make our marriage work, I did what I do and made use of the U.S. Postal Service, mailing him little notes. I also went to my print inventory and pulled out two of the Why I Love You prints, slipped them in cello sleeves and then into reinforced cardboard mailers. One I shipped to Mark, and the other went to Jim’s office with a note that read something like this:

Jim,  

It seems you and I share the affliction of not being able to express to our spouses how we feel about them. I designed this print for Mark a while ago and just mailed him a copy. I thought maybe you might like one to give to Carrie as we try to salvage these marriages.  

Best,  

Megan 

We talked a week later and Jim said, “Why did you send me that poem?”

I was confused until I realized that he meant the hyper-minimalist black print.

“Wasn’t there a note in there?” I asked.

“Yes. But I’ve seen that poem before.”

Huh?

After the affair came to light and we all decided to work on the marriages, Carrie gave Jim the secret cell phone Mark had left her and other little bits of Mark's notes and shit. (Note: Men, it is never acceptable to doorbell ditch a pick-me-up to someone else’s wife. You want to avoid an affair? Avoid doing that.) Among that garbage was a black 11x14 print Mark had given her that Carrie said was the most thoughtful gift she'd ever received.

Turns out that before I had any inkling that he was cheating, my husband had gone into my office at the house, rifled through my print inventory, and gifted his mistress the print that I’d put together to explain how I felt about him. My husband used me to court another man’s wife. 

That blow, that one was the lowest.

•••

Riddle me this, Dear Reader, did Mark, like, think that Carrie would be able to hang the print in the house? What would happen when Jim asked about it? Would she say that she meant those words for him, her husband, lying to hide a perversion? That would be along the same lines as the time that Mark was working for Jim and he got back from lunch and when Jim asked how lunch was, Mark replied, “Great! Had a nooner,” and it later comes out that said nooner was with Jim’s wife.

IN HIS OWN WORDS

A bit a ago I reposted a comment Jim made on a post. I'm doing it again. Here's why: It's clear I'm besotted, and I'd sure hate to be the only one. I'm happy to provide proof that Jim likes me back. I've got the most sympathetic people in my corner; I'm told again and again that I deserve good things, that I deserve love. Well, I have it, Dear Reader. He says so. Right here:

10 things I love about Megan:

1) SMART!—Not just book smart either. She knows what the hell is going on around her. Thanks, "Wait Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me."

2) She is GOOD at EVERYTHING—Need a present wrapped, airline reservation made on the correct date, advice on what glasses look best, or a wedding officiated? She is your girl.

3) CREATIVE—Yeah, if you think she can only write you would be dead wrong. Don’t believe me? Just go to Amazon and type her name. You will instantly know what I am talking about. Do yourself a favor and buy some art.

4) FUNNY!—She has great timing, and when she laughs it comes from down deep. She slaps her hands and collapses to the floor. It is adorable, and she doesn’t pee her pants, which is also great. Who announces that anyway?

5) COMPASIONITE and KIND—She is always looking how to help out and fix things. She is always talking about her friends, yoga community, and her family. She really loves all of you so much.

6) FAMILY—She is all about family all the time. She makes her own family a priority and she respects me when I make my family a priority. For me there is nothing more attractive than putting family 1st.

7) TEAMMATE—She is the one you want on your side. You know where she stands and she will not let you down.

8) DEPENDABLE—She follows through on stuff. She thinks ahead and makes things easy.

9) CUTE—Not in just a next door neighbor way either (unless you are her neighbor), but cute in a way that melts my heart. The ways she dances, the way she surprises me with gifts, the way she looks when she goes to work in a pencil skirt, I love to see her excited to go to yoga and also how exhausted she is when she is done with yoga. She is ripped. Her arms . . . oh those arms.

10) ACCOMPLISHED—She can thaw pipes when they freeze in her house. She can sell the hell out of drugs and mow a lawn with a push mower. (I am not talking about one that's self-propelled. I am talking about one that has nothing but blades and wheels. Like the one The Beaver used to mow lawns in the 50s.) She has so many things she has accomplished like school, dean's list, great pharma job, yoga, writing, and the list could go on and on.

I love you, sweetie. Thanks for inviting me to lunch that day.

(Reposted from the comments section on my Love Story post.)

You have my rather insincere apologies for the back-to-back mushy posts. When my parents were visiting a couple weekends ago, Jim and I were sitting at the counter in my kitchen and in response to some comment Jim made I said to my mom, "Isn't he adorable?" She gave me an Ew! response. And I said, "C'mom, Ma, after what you've seen me go through in the last year, don't you think I deserve a little mush?" She gave the go-ahead for all the mush I wanted. 

THE LOVE STORY

Lately, I’ve been blogging some especially depressing stuff. (Traci, I was considered writing “whatnot,” and then I stopped myself.) I’m getting lots of Internet hugs and well wishes and atta girls, and when I say they mean the world to me, I’m not exaggerating. I wrote something and you responded. Thank you. But it’s probably time that I lift the mood a little, dontcha think?

So I’m going to tell you how it came to be that I’m dating Jim.

I phrase my reply exactly the same every time someone asks how we got together—“My husband left me for another woman, and I am dating her ex-husband.” Then I see a perplexed face followed by a processing look, then comprehension and a smile or a laugh and very often a way-to-go. “That’s it!” I’ll be told, “That’s the best revenge!” And I’m grateful for the exuberance, but this was never about revenge.

From the time I learned out about his extramarital dalliance, Mark made clear that if our marriage was going to have any chance, I had to stop all communication with Jim. Don’t respond to emails! Block his phone number! Skirt him at church! Jim was poison; he was going to put things in my head about the affair that weren’t true.

If you ask Jim about that time, he’ll tell you that he was angry with me for cutting contact. For him, salvaging his marriage meant rallying and sharing information. For me it was doing what my husband wanted, and my wayward spouse was paranoid that any sliver of information about him that I might accidentally spill to Jim would be used to somehow destroy him.

Once our divorce suit was filed and I knew the Ellikers were in the same place, I reached out to Jim. My partner at work has been divorced for 14 years, has two kids, and is Mormon. She hasn’t remarried, and that makes her unique, for within the Mormon culture there tends to be a rush to wed once a divorce is done. As she discovered the details of what was going on with our marriages, she told me, “I would love to help Jim and his kids if I could.” So I emailed Jim her contact information.

To tell the truth, I planned to marry them off. Happily Ever After. The End. But those two, um, weren’t a good fit. (I, however, am a terrific fit. Just ask. He’ll confirm. At least he better . . . )

But she did give advice and insight, and he was grateful. That’s something I admire about Jim—he is never too proud to ask for help and accepts assistance graciously.

In November I let Mark watch the dog while I went to New York with Amber and Jessica. See, back then I thought that we could have some kind of amicable split. When he came over to return my Soph, I mentioned something about Jim. I think I said that he offered to cut me a Christmas tree.

“Wait, you are in contact with him?” Mark was alarmed.

“Yeah, he’s my friend.”

“He only wants to harm me.”

“I understand that desire. And I can’t fault him for it. Did you or did you not sleep with his wife?”

“Don’t talk to him.”

“I need a friend.”

“Find a different one.”

“I want this one. He understands what I’m going through.” I opened the door so Mark would go, “And you and I are getting a divorce.”

On the very date that my divorce was absolute, I felt comfortable texting Jim and asking if I could take him to lunch. Why wait until the divorce was final? Because I was scared that anything I might do that would piss Mark off would lead him to try to change the divorce arrangements and find a way to screw me further. But it was complete, so I felt free to do as I wished. And what I wished was to heal and help heal. 

While I was certainly a victim of someone else’s shitty choices, it took me months to see that I wasn’t the main casualty. It was Jim’s four kids. I was especially concerned about his 11-year-old daughter since I’m pretty sure that that age is one of the worst possible times a girl’s parent can go batshit crazy and dissolve her secure environment. So I asked Jim out specifically to inquire after that kid.

Once we were at lunch though, my motives expanded. I’d been needing to find someone to make out with, and sitting across from Jim at a booth in Granite Street Eatery, I decided it would be him. In our beginning, I wasn’t looking for a relationship; I just wanted to get some. 

There were barriers though. He thought of me as a little sister. Or rather, he thought, “If she were my sister, I’d want someone to be kind to her, so that’s what I’ll do.”

Friends had set him up with some other lady that he was starting to like more than I was comfortable with. So as I got closer with Jim and his family—going to his house to do origami, helping wrap Christmas presents—I maneuvered her out of my way. I encouraged him to look for red flags. And then I magnified them. Nimbly, I relegated the woman from potential girlfriend to casual pal. 

Then I steered him my way. While bashing our genius exes one night I commented how moronic Mark was to go for such an older woman. “That’s not how it should go,” I said. “But it’s different when the man is much older. That’s totally acceptable.”

Jim sees this as the turning point, as the waaait-a-minute moment when he realized that despite being 16 years his junior, this little thing in front of him was a prospect.

Guys, I got married when cell phones were scarce, so I had never experienced the charge of initial flirtation via text. Holy smokes, it’s sensational! Constant contact. You can reread what your quarry wrote. The butterflies that rushed me whenever Jim Elliker showed up on my screen can’t be overstated. He was—and still is—a constant heart thrill.

When I went to Utah to visit for Christmas I tried not to be too obvious about it, but it was “Jim this and Jim that” so much that The Family started to see that our association wasn’t just friends helping each other through a rough time; it was Megan getting smitten.

So one night in my parent’s family room, while I was obviously texting with Jim, my mom said, “Hey, invite Jim to your graduation. I wanna meet him.” Graduation was in two weeks. It was in Massachusetts. I asked him right then. Within minutes, he had a plane ticket.

It was on.

It took months for us both to have any confidence that what we are doing is a good idea. Our hearts had just been beat to shit, so how could we know if the way we felt was legitimate? Time and patience and trying to scare the hell out of one another with brutal honesty to see who blinks first helped us get to a place where we’re both secure. He makes me happier than I ever thought another person could. And, guys, our first kiss happened like in a movie. It was at the airport. There were snow flurries. I was wearing awesome boots. I called out to him at passenger pick up. He walked across the road, didn’t stop to speak, grabbed me, and kissed me until I was weak in the knees. Trust me, this is a very good idea.

•••

In case you were wondering, yes, I do like it when people come up to me and say, “I read your blog, and . . . ” I like to know you’re there. It’s not stalking. You don’t have to apologize when you tell me you read a post. My blog ain’t private. It’s here for public consumption. Yeah, there’s some seriously personal shit on here, and I can understand if reading it makes you feel a little awkward—hey, I often feel awkward posting it—but I love writing reality, and this reality is what we’ve got for now.

No need to be bashful when you approach; I like you already. (Unless your feedback is unfavorable, in which case, I don’t mind at all if you stay anonymous.)

THE AIRPORT STORY

On July 19th of last year my manager was in town to do a ride-along. When I was dropping him off at the airport we saw a bunch of cop cars in the cell phone waiting lot.

Indicating the commotion, I said, “Oh, sad. Someone’s having a bad day.”

Turns out it was me.

I dropped him off and headed for home to plow through my midyear review. As I pulled onto the freeway I listened to a voice message. It was from Jim. This part is foggy; I’m not absolutely certain what the message said, but the important bit went something like this, “I caught Mark and Carrie making out in the car at the airport. I busted in the windows. Nobody's hurt.”

Here’s how my thoughts went when I heard that—

No. Mark is gone. He is in Salt Lake. Did he come back? He got on a plane? Wait, no, he broke up with her. He said that he wanted to be with me. Why were they together? He’s gone. If this really happened, he’ll still be at the airport. He would never leave the scene without filing a police report. Were they in the parking garage? Oh my gosh, that’s what the all the cops were doing there . . .

Pulling up to the cell lot I saw what I hadn’t noticed when I drove past earlier. I saw my husband. Tall, long legs in dark jeans, a bright green t-shirt with an big QR code in the shape of the Apple logo. Carrie’s car, a dark blue-gray SUV.

I parked a ways from the commotion—the police officers, Mark sitting in the far back of the SUV with the hatch up and filling out paperwork, Carrie on the other side of the car. She was wearing a baseball cap.

I walked toward the car. I now know that there was glass on the asphalt from the two bashed-in windows on the passenger side, but I had tunnel vision; everything around me was fuzzy as I walked toward Mark. Even though my legs felt like liquid, they somehow propelled me forward. When I stopped in front of him he looked up from the report and said, “Hi!” as if nothing was wrong or strange or out of place.

The nearest cop asked me what I was doing there. I pointed at Mark and said, “That’s my husband.” And then I pointed at Carrie on the other side of the car, “And that’s his mistress.”

The officer guided me away. When we got to my car I sank onto the front bumper. My knees were done supporting me.

I looked up at the officer. “When did my life get so much like a Jerry Springer show?”

He laughed and asked, “Are you okay to drive?”

“My husband doesn’t have a ride now. I can wait until he is done and take him home.” It’s only now that I see how nutsy that sounds.

“It’s probably better that you don’t. You should go home.”

“Probably.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Well,” I replied, “I’d like to go over there and beat the shit out of her, but I’m guessing that’s frowned upon.”

He laughed again. “Yeah, I’d have to stop you.”

“I could take her, you know. I’m small, but I’ve got rage on my side. I could take that bitch.”

He laughed again.

My happy memory of that day was the fact that in one of the more rotten moments I’ve ever experienced, I made the cop watching over me laugh three times. Despite everything, that part of the day stands out to me. But I glossed over the part that stood out to you, didn’t I?

My now-boyfriend smashed in the car windows. 

Until your spouse cheats on you, you’ll never understand how crazy you become in trying to get them back. And how being crazy isn’t just reasonable, it’s your responsibility, it’s necessary. Nothing is too much, especially if you have four kids and their mom has gone batshit crazy and run off with your best friend. It’s not too much to surreptitiously activate the OnStar on your wayward wife’s car. It’s not too much to obsessively watch her movements to verify that she is where she said she’d be. It’s not too much to follow her when her car shows that she’s lingering at the airport. And when you find her in the backseat with her boyfriend, it’s not too much to take a tactical baton that the boyfriend gifted your oldest son and bash in the windows on your own car to get at the slimy asshole. In fact, your actions are so reasonable that everyone who knows what’s going on in your life will be jealous that you got to smash in the windows. The wife of that man that used to be your best friend will outright tell you that she’s envious.

The unacceptable kind of crazy comes next. That crazy is what the cheating spouses did.

They disappeared. They went AWOL for a week. Wouldn’t return the many, many calls or texts or emails from me, from Jim, from friends, from the kids. I slept on the daybed in my office, gripping my phone throughout my Ambien-induced fitful sleep in case my husband called in the middle of the night, and I didn’t go back to sleeping in my own bed until three months later.

From the start of the infidelity disaster I knew that I’d write about it one day, and I knew that I wouldn’t remember all the details. So I kept notes. I kept everything. All the texts and emails from the time when I found out about the cheating until the email where my husband broke up with me. And at the end of last year I complied them into one 30,000-word document.

Here, from the airport day, two consecutive texts from me to the man I was married to (no responses came):

3:37PM—

When you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen. 

Don’t know what to think about what I’ve been told, but I’m not going to think anything until you’ve told me your side.  

Also, I’m home. You can come here if you want. I have no idea what’s going on. I told the officers that I could give you a ride, but they made me leave.

8:37PM—

Okay, this just came to me and I can’t really believe I’m saying it, but Carrie could spend the night here. I know you don’t want her to go home because you don’t believe it’s safe, but assuming that you guys aren’t getting physical at some hotel, maybe you want to go somewhere where impropriety isn’t a question that you guys have to overcome later. I won’t attack Carrie—not emotionally or physically. I want these marriages to have a chance and if you guys go to some hotel or something that might look too bad to fix. I know this sounds insane. I know it, but I am trying to help us all. If this is an option you want to exercise, call me. I swear I will only speak about logistics. We can talk about other things later. 

None of this is lining up. I might be an idiot (probably) but I don’t think this is what it looks like. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but trying to be logical and knowing you as I do, the picture I’ve been presented with just doesn’t make sense. 

I was wrong. So many times I was wrong. Is it that I never knew him or that he morphed into something unrecognizable? Is it both? I will never know.

Whereas I thought my husband was staying in Utah, it turns out he was in town in some hotel with her. Apparently, she'd told Jim she was going to the hotel to for the night to clear her head. That day our spouses were at the airport because she was dropping him off so he could fly to Salt Lake and retreive all his belongings.

During their incommunicado week, the wayward spouses made their way to Utah. And on a Sunday afternoon, Mark dropped Carrie off at a movie so he could go to my parents’ house, break in through the basement because they'd changed the garage code to keep him out, and collect the stuff that he’d moved there when he decided that he wanted to stay in our marriage and knew he’d need geographical distance from Carrie if we were going to work out.

But, as you already know, seeing as I brilliantly married a man without a shred of fortitude, we didn't work out. Instead, I've landed a boyfriend who my family adores, whose parents think I'm terrific, who's a kickass dad, and whose right forearm sports a scar. It's from that time he busted in some car windows, and I think it's damned sexy.

THE END

I feel bad for the medical offices I called on today, really anyone with whom I crossed paths. I was a killjoy. 

This day is tainted. Were I still married, this day would have been our 11th anniversary, though that’s not what made me a bummer. It was what happened one year ago today.

It was on this day last year that, were I a camel, my back would have broke; September 24, 2012, gave me the last straw. It was an email, received at 9:57PM, subject line “So it’s like this…” It said:

Meg, 

I went to Minta's house.  And Carrie was there.  And we talked.  And talked.  And talked.  

And my heart overpowered my over-analytical mind.  And I'm choosing to make a life with her.  

I know my apologies are meaningless, but I cannot help myself from tendering to your heart my most sincere regrets.  

You are a catch and deserve to be chased.  

-Mark

I read that email, and immediately I was completely done. I was ready for the divorce my husband Mark had been hemming and hawing about. But that wasn’t at all how the day had started . . .

Somewhere in early August, my husband moved out. He’d been engaged in his affair with Her for months, I’d been in the loop since late June, and he finally decided move his desk, our bed, a love seat, and a couple computers into a tiny apartment pretty much exactly halfway between my house and the pad Carrie had moved into when Jim told her that if she wasn’t going to stop texting her boyfriend she’d have to leave.

It wasn’t the end of our relationship though. Really, it was just the kickoff party for my best begging. I used logic. I used mushy stuff. I used sex. I appealed to what shreds of morality he might have had left, trying to sell him on encouraging Carrie to go back to Jim to try to save their family, to spare their kids. Some days it looked like I was making headway. Other days—well, on other days I did things like forget to eat and accidentally spill a bottle of emerald nail polish on the tan carpet and not give a flying rat’s ass. 

Both the Wasband and I had read Surviving an Affair, and I recommend it to anyone, not anyone who is working through infidelity or a rough patch in a marriage—Anyone. It’s short and, though not great writing, a terrific manual for strengthening a relationship. If you let it.

In The Book it gave steps for saving a marriage after an affair. Immediately and bluntly cut off all contact with the mistress. No fancy, lovey breakup letter. Just cut and run. And I really do mean run. The Book said that to save a marriage you may have to employ extreme measures like changing jobs or moving. My ex and I knew that he was too weak to remain in the same house—after all, we were in the same ward boundaries at church with Carrie—or even the same city, so saving our marriage meant uprooting entirely and moving fast.

Since the Wasband’s affair had cut off his income, I was the only provider. (Oh, did I not tell you that not only were Mark and Jim very close friends before Mark had an affair with Jim’s wife, but Jim also employed Mark? No, I am not kidding.) Thus I’d have to either quit my job, leaving us totally fundless, or finagle a transfer.

So in the days before our 10th anniversary, when he “decided” that remaining in our marriage was what he was going to do, I called my boss and made a formal request for a transfer to Las Vegas. I committed to leave a job I liked and a yoga community I’d come to rely on.

On Sunday, the 23rd, we slept in our house, in the same bed, for the first time in months. The next morning, our anniversary, after sex—also for the first time in months (well, for me, that is, since he had been sleeping with her all along)—we launched the breakup. He changed his cell number. We blocked her email address. And, as per The Book, I babysat him. People all entangled in an affair are by nature weak weak weak, and if they’re trying to break their pattern of weakness, they need someone hovering over them, reminding them of their decision to save a marriage. So that Monday became Take Your Wayward Spouse to Work Day. 

Just as we were getting ready to leave the house, the doorbell rang. At the door was a small woman I’d never seen before. If you asked me now to describer her, all I could tell you is “troll.” That might not even be what she looked like, but I now know her as filthy and troll-like, so that’s all I’ve got in the way of physical description.

“Is Mark Romo here?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, he doesn’t live here.” I replied. No one had come to the house for him in months, yet here's this thing on my porch looking for my husband on the first day he is home.

“Well, I need him to fix my computer, and this is the only contact I have.” Our home address had never been connected to any of his business contact info. He only used a P.O. Box by way of address. “I tried to call him, but the number didn’t work.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

“I really need to contact him.”

“I can't help. I'm sorry.”

And I shut the door.

A crazy-weird exchange there, Dear Reader. Nothing like that had ever happened before. That’s because my husband had never before tried to break up with his girlfriend and move home. See, the woman at my door was Carrie’s mother, Minta (as referenced in the email above).

Here’s how I know my own mom isn’t trash: She would never go to my boyfriend’s wife’s house to try to contact him for me. My mom would never help me break up my marriage and hurt my kids to run off with some tool who was also married.

And right there’s where everything fell apart.

I took the spouse to work with me. He waited in the car while I went in to see doctors. He cried while we drove. And when we got home, he told me that he had to go to Minta’s house. He had to go explain what he was doing in staying married.

I knew if he went to her house it would be the end. So I pled. I used reason. I tossed his own words back at him: “Remember? Remember how you said that you don’t want to be with Carrie because that’s no kind of life? You said that you don’t want to be with a woman whose kids will always hate you. You don’t want to live in a house you’ll never own. You told me these things.”

But he wanted to be understood.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, “but this isn’t the part where you get to be understood. This is the part where you sit on the couch and cry.”

He cried.

I continued, “You can be strong and stick to your decision. We knew this would be hard. But it's the right thing. We can get through it.”

He stood up to leave.

“Here,” I said, “will it help if you tell me all the things you love about her?”

One of the harder things I’ve ever done in my life is listen to my husband tell me what he loves about the woman he’d been having an affair with. But I was desperate.

Apparently, so was he. So he put on his shoes. And he drove away.

From a puddle of my own tears on the floor, I somehow found my phone and called my sister. Lo came over. And for the next couple hours, she babysat me. She made me laugh. We did my expense report. We catalogued prints.

And then, at 9:57PM, my husband broke up with me via email.

And emotionally, one year ago today, I finally broke up with him. 

WINNING A LOSS

You know what guys—he got away with it. My ex-husband had an affair, teamed up to shatter a family, and he got off clean. Consequences? Not really, no. No consequences that actually affect him. He didn’t have any friends to lose. He regained a relationship with his estranged family because my family—the upgrade replacement one—thinks he’s a tool and would rather sauté their children than have anything to do with him. He wanted to be a stay-at-home dad, and now, well, he pretty much has that. With Jim funding his life, my ex gets to pal around with his woman and her kids all day. Job? Please.

He got away with it, and I won’t be bashful about saying that it sort of kills me. I wasn't the one that cheated, but I am the one in therapy working through emotional scars like new insecurities, a [rational] inability to trust, and fear of abandonment. It seems that all you have to do to get everything you’ve ever wanted is plow through people and be selfish to the hilt. Shouldn't it be the other way around? You know—achieving happiness through being kind, trying to think of others, respecting boundaries, etc.? Apparently not.

And don’t tell me what goes around comes around, ‘cause I just don’t believe it anymore. Long term, eternal-type consequences—is thinking of those supposed to make everything okay? Nothin’ doin’. I’ve never had a killer testimony or been motivated to pursue one, so having faith that he'll get his in the end won’t satisfy just now.

My therapist—and this time she’s right; oh, okay, she’s right all the time—says that the best way to deal with my disgust and ire about my ex getting off cleanly is to be happy elsewhere and forget about him. And, to a point, I can and am doing that. It's a process. But I have to hear about—and not disparage—that monumental loser seeing as I date his chick’s ex-husband and they share kids. (Genius on my part, I know. But guys, this man I’ve got now is a real treat. I don't have to babysit him. It’s a fresh experience to be with someone who is honest and has nothing to hide. For the first time I'm seeing what it's like to be with a humble man who is quick to admit when he doesn't know something. And—also new for me—who absolutely everyone likes. There are three people in my life that I can use as a tool to determine who has something wrong with them; if you don’t like Jessica Makin, my cousin Andie’s husband, Morgan, or Jim, you’ve got issues. Since only sociopaths and psychos don’t immediately like these three, I can use them as a quick way to determine who to avoid.)

I did the right thing. I tried with absolutely everything I had to save my marriage. And I wasn’t faking it. I had to do all the things I could think of in order to live with myself. While I was going through the yes-no-yes-no months last year the people who knew what was going on in my life wondered why I wouldn’t throw in the towel already and finally see that enough was enough. Someone told me that when I'd reached my limit and done all I could, I'd know it. And when that time came I was so certain that I'd met the end that I felt the shift physically. But there was no arriving there until I’d done everything I could do.

And like I’ve said so many times before, I’m happy I lost. Fighting for my marriage was the biggest battle in my little life, and I got beat. Sometimes winning really isn’t a win. And that’s what I have to hold onto. My favorite movies and novels are the ones where somebody gets what they deserve. I like to see a clean win and justice. Right now the win I see looks filthy and sick. So hopefully in winning the loser actually lost.

•••

Oh, and you probably want to know how it went at the amusement park today. Well, I’ll tell you—it didn’t. We got to Auburn and had to turn around. Sick kid. If I’m no rockstar with healthy kids, I’d like you to consider how I do with sick ones. I’m worthless.

DOUGH DETAILS

Sometimes readers leave comments that need to be reposted. The Boyfriend just added one of those to yesterday's post. I wrote that that Jim financially supports his kids and our exes. People get curious about the money specifics. They wanna know just how much. Were you one of them? Well, be curious no more. My guy gifted you with some delish voyeuristic deets. Dig in.

(Be warned though, your eyes might fall out of your head, and there's a fair chance you'll throw up all over the device on which you're reading this.)

Is it just me, or is that a boatload of dough? One might say that infidelity can be a lucrative dalliance . . . 

HIMS

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.

WHOREMONES

Good grief, can being a girl suck. This monthly go ‘round, my whoremones have been screwing with me big time. It’s like I’ve been flayed and my every muscular morsel is bare. The merest breeze touches me and I do one of three things: cry, grind my teeth into powder, or hurl a blood-curdling scream at the sky. Simply nothing is right in the world. I’m up. I’m down. I’m upside down. I’m everything but right side up.

Imagine dating that kind of hell. Poor sweet, sweet Jim. He puts up with me during the swings and sways and storms of über sexy womanhood. Part of my post-affair/divorce damage is an amplified fear of abandonment. Jim is an honorable man. I have every reason to believe him when he says nice things to me and when he tells me that he wants to keep me around. But where I come from is a place of being pretty severely lied to. My books on extramarital affairs tell me that infidelity is inextricably linked to lies. And even though I have spent more time not being lied to than being lied to, it’s the being lied to that left a darker mark. Thus although Jim tells the truth, and I’ve never seen anything but honesty from him—no one has—my [rather reasonable] fears of abandonment, given where I’ve come from, and my effing whoremones of late mean that I think every single little thing I say will make him want to break up with me. It doesn’t matter that he’s never given any indication that he’s leaning that way; I don’t see the world through rational lenses right now.

But that’s where I come from. I spent the months after the affair came to light—the phase I refer to as the yes-no-yes-no-yes-no time in my life wherein my husband had his pick of two very desperate women, one desperate to keep her marriage and the other desperate to eff up every good thing in her life—terrified that any wrong step I made would send him into her arms for good. I tried to magnify my good parts. I tried to kill my bad parts. That’s usually my modus operandi, but I amplified the hell outta that shit. I was constantly trying to sell my spouse on not tossing our last ten years. I was all for forgiving him and moving on together.

For my own sake, I’m thrilled that that’s a battle I lost. I’m much better off. Most especially in the man realm. (I actually have one now.) But it’s a battle that left me with scars I hate. Some scars we get are pretty cool, maybe they carry a good memory or a funny story, but those inside scars I have from the way my marriage ended simply suck. At times, they make me really pathetic. But my strong, kind, and levelheaded boyfriend has an unfortunate understanding of how I got these particular wounds, and he puts up with my intermittent desperation—Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Please, please don’t leave me. Even if I haven’t done anything wrong, please don’t leave me!

I really loathe me at times like this, times when whoremones converge with wounds and make me into a pitiful being. The upside: at least I know the whoremonal part of all this ain’t permanent. I’ll probably be fine next week. Hopefully. And I’ve got a therapist for the internal wounds. So though I might be stuck in the mud for now, at least I’m facing the right direction.  

UNNIVERSARY

One year. Today. One year ago today I was stupid happy. I was in Cambridge, Mass, a little more than halfway through my last residency for graduate school. Dear Reader, it was glorious. I was at Lesley. I was with my people. I was feeling confident in my thesis. I was yoked with my faculty advisor of choice. I was looking forward to my friends Audrey and Candice’s senior seminars. I was wearing a new black maxi dress with a kelly green cropped cardigan. I really remember that. I even remember my weight that morning, and I wasn’t pissed off about it. Life couldn’t have been much better. 

Then, while I was sitting in an evening poetry reading, I got a text message from Emily, who walks my Sophie. Emily said that she came by and the puppy wasn’t there. That was new.

My husband was at home in Sparks. I texted and asked him after our dog’s whereabouts. He replied that he had boarded her ‘cause he was leaving town—“Goin’ on a little road trip with [his brother] John.”

Unscheduled road trip? Not our norm. So I left the reading and called him to ask what was going on. He repeated what he’d said via text. He was evasive. I persisted with the Whats? and the Whys?

“Do you really want to do this now?” he asked.

Oh boy.

He told me to get on video chat. I walked back to my dorm and logged on. And then, looking down at the keyboard while he spoke, my husband told me that his brother was in town helping him pack up half the house because he was moving out. Maybe to Vegas, but he couldn’t be sure. He was leaving because, well . . . because . . . well, because he was having an affair with his best friend’s wife.

You didn’t know that part of the story before, did you? Yes, my now-boyfriend, Jim, and my ex were best pals. The Wasband fought me on that fact. “Best friends?” he’d say, “I don’t think we were best friends. Good friends, but not best.” (As if a different adjective mitigates the offense.) I’ll tell you this, from an “outsider’s” perspective, they were besties. They met at church and became fast friends. Months before the affair came to light I remember telling our friend, Nate, that Mark and Jim were like brothers from another mother. If my spouse wasn’t at home or working, I knew he’d be at Jim’s place.

Best friends or no, they were very close. Mark “respected” Jim. He admired him. Apparently he admired him so much that he decided he wanted to have what Jim had. Like Jim’s wife. And, now that the divorce is final and assets have been divvied up, Jim’s money too. It’s probably a miracle that Jim didn’t have to move out of his house to make way for my ex and his splendid slut. (I say “slut” because, despite their claims that this wasn’t some lusty dalliance, that it was for-real love, they still aren’t married. We endured their professions of love and desires to marry, but even though they’ve both liberated themselves from the bonds of their old marriages and are free to wed, they shack up. It's fine for some, but they swore up and down that they were desperate to get married. They haven’t gotten hitched, and we’re pretty sure they never will, because without the alimony Jim pays, those two won’t be able to make their bills.)

I remember this date one year ago as if it were happening now. I went from the peak of bliss to a pit of distress in minutes. Life hasn’t been the same since. Actually, it’s been pretty effed up.

True, I’m head over heels for Jim; I’m dating a man who can improve any day by just showing up. I enjoy an enviable career. I own the cutest dog I’ve ever seen. I have family that isn’t allowed to be any more extraordinary than they already are because my heart would explode. My friends are the kind that only add value. Mine is a good life.

But I still got ditched in favor of another broad, one 14 years my senior. And, there’s no two ways about it, that damaged the hell out of me. I was married, and a few months before our ten-year anniversary, my husband got distracted by a pair of breast implants and kicked off an extramarital affair. I own some fault for a marriage that was weak enough to break like this, but I’ve been in therapy long enough to concede that I didn’t make my ex’s choices.

So I keep working on putting myself back together. Usually my learning curve is pretty steep, so I can get frustrated and wonder how come I’m not “fixed” yet. With my great people and professional help, I should be good as new by now, right? I guess not, because there are days that I’m really beat up over the whole thing. I have my abandoned days. My mad days. Days where I feel small and helpless. Days where I feel hideous. They’re less and less as time passes, and it’s only been a year, so I’m going to try to be patient with myself, with my healing. If Rome wasn’t built in a day, I’m pretty sure it couldn’t be rebuilt in one either. I suppose I just need more time.