by Kim Goldman
My hands were shaking as we hung up the phone. What did I just do? I was either being really stupid, or risking a broken heart for a lifetime of joy.
I think it was equal parts both.
* * *
Vegas called more frequently, and we continued to talk about our future. I was starting to think that we could make our way back to each other, but I was confused that he didn’t want to see me. We had started to instant message and text and talk as much as we could while he traveled for work. He was still nervous about “us,” still working out the kinks of how it would work, and was afraid that being with me could cloud his judgment, while we figured it out.
We finally got together for a drink one night after I did an interview regarding the If I Did It controversy. We ended up at a karaoke bar and had a great night together. It was as if no time had passed. (I probably should have done without the ridiculous karaoke rendition of Stevie Nicks’s “Leather and Lace,” but that is what a few cocktails do for my singing inabilities.) We had a few intimate moments throughout the night, and I felt my heart swoon again. We left each other in the parking lot, with a long embrace and a sweet soft kiss, intending to see each other in a week or so when he returned from a production trip to Vegas.
A week went by, and I hadn’t heard from him yet. I knew he was supposed to be home by now. I finally caved and reached out.
“Hey, where have you been? I was getting worried,” I said quietly.
“Well, I have been in the hospital, like on my deathbed. I had a stroke and so I have been laid up in the hospital.”
“Oh, my God! Why didn’t you call me? I would have dropped everything. I’ll come right now.”
“Well, I am on the mend, but I have plenty of people here that are taking care of me. So I am okay.”
“What? You have plenty of people there? So I don’t have a place there?”
“I am good, Kim. I will call you in a few days. This experience has really opened my eyes a lot. Thanks for caring. I am going to go now.”
I was incensed. I couldn’t comprehend what had just transpired.
Stroke. Hospital. Plenty of other people.
Speechless. Stunned. No tears came, and no compassion was extended.
Just a few short days later, Vegas called me on his lunch break from work, apologizing for taking so long.
“This is hard for me, Kim, because I care about you so much. But the last few days, I had a lot of time to think, and I just don’t feel it’s right to come back into your life right now. I have so much rehab to do, and therapy, and my work colleague is going to live with me and help me get healthy. You and Sam don’t need a stroke victim. You have enough to deal with.”
“That will be $4.87, sir. Please proceed to the next window.”
“Oh, my God, are you at the fucking drive-thru? You are dumping me while you are ordering your fast food! Are you crazy? Oh, we are so done. Good fucking luck to you.”
And I slammed down the receiver. Well, actually, I just pressed “End Call” really hard, because you couldn’t have that big of an impact on a cell phone, but I wanted to slam it down!
I was seeing red. I was so deeply hurt by his dismissal of me. I was cast aside, without consideration. That was all I needed to shut the door on our relationship, permanently.
I was definitely guarded this second time around, but I trusted him because I felt like I clearly stated a boundary and a need. He was incapable of honoring it, therefore dishonoring me.
A few months later, he instant messaged me, telling me he is engaged to his pregnant “work colleague.” He said he missed me, and wondered if he had made the right decision by leaving me.
Yup. You did.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
* * *
Compared to other women I know, I am not a big dater. I don’t get asked out a lot, and I happen to live in the “Land of the Marrieds.” I don’t get set up very often, either, because most of my friends are married, and all of their friends are married, and they say that “the ones who are single are single for a reason.” So that leaves online dating or chance meetings.
Especially now, dating as a divorced woman, with a child and a public image, makes it incredibly difficult. I have met my share of whackadoodles, disguised as decent men. Unfortunately, I am an expert excuse maker—for the other person. If I meet someone who demonstrates odd behaviors, I find ways to justify them. That leads to trepidation and sorrow when it first happens, and then hours of comedy-club-worthy material after the dust has settled.
I now have been single longer than I was married, and I am working hard to embrace the life I never really wanted. That’s a very sobering realization for me.
I have confided this to my friends, but when I was growing up, I envisioned a life with me and some kids—but no husband. Now that I am living that exact life, what the hell was I thinking? This is a lot of work for one woman.
And even though I can change a light fixture, mow the lawn, and have my own collection of power tools, I want something different for myself and for my son. I want a partnership, I want a family, I want a home, I want siblings for my child.
I want a love that is reliable, respectful, fun, deep, and slightly conditional.
Before you shake your head at me, let me explain: I am not a believer in the generic term “unconditional love.” I think it sets us up for failure and encourages a lack of accountability. I think the term “unconditional love” sounds really pretty, but it’s a slippery slope that can allow bad behavior to occur. Because you “unconditionally love” someone, you can justify crappy behavior.
I think relationships should come with a set of healthy expectations (otherwise complacency becomes too high of a risk), and with expectations should come conditions. So when I say I want it to be “slightly conditional,” I mean that I want to be held responsible for my actions, and I want my partner to be mindful of theirs.
The majority of my friends are married, with the exception of a few close girlfriends who have never made it to the altar, despite engagements and long-term affairs and then me—the only one who has walked down the aisle, and straight to divorce court.
We are in our forties, independent, funny, goal oriented, self-evolved, sassy, smart, sexy, down-to-earth. We swap countless stories, give each other pep talks, and chatter on and on, trying to figure out the opposite sex and what it all means.
Simultaneously we try to be champions for each other when we don’t get the second call or the relationship comes to a screeching halt. Then after a few tears, and the “why me” discussion, we always end up giggling about how much easier it would be if we just married each other.
But this group of women, whom I lovingly refer to as “the tribal council,” decided for me that I made poor decisions when it came time to picking and dating men. So in an effort to do things differently than I had done in the past, I agreed to run certain thoughts past the ladies:
A mom, wife, and a social worker, Lisa is one of the brightest, quickest, in-your-face women I know. She doesn’t let me get away with anything; she leads the pack and usually serves as my voice of reason.
Denise has been married for most of her adulthood. She has two kids—those miraculous twin babies, now grown up and in grammar school—and has no patience for any “man crap” and hates when she thinks I am being played for a fool.
Michele, my resident fledgling single girl, shares the same dim-wittedness I do about relationships—and, honestly, neither of us can figure out why we go to each other for advice, since clearly we are doing something terribly wrong in the dating arena, including having dated the same man. (She is now in a healthy, happy relationship, so maybe I really should have listened to her!)
Vicki is a newer friend, married, with two kids. She has a Pollyanna approach to men, much like I do, so she always agrees with me when I am making excuses.
Christine is profoundly wise, articulate, focused, and equally naïve. She completely shares my feelings that many me
n are intimidated by strong, smart women.
I have a good mix, I think. There are a few singles, a few marrieds, a ballbuster or two, and a pushover or three. Every side of my personality would be represented on this council, so I would be able to make well-informed and strategic decisions about dating.
* * *
When I met “Tagger boyfriend” in 2008, a few years after my divorce, there was a slight hint of hope.
Here were his specifics: he was forty years old, a single father, Jewish, handsome, seemingly witty and slightly aloof, which I, of course, thought was fun. I found him on JDate.com, which immediately had to mean that he was available for a relationship (insert sarcastic tone here).
Anyway, when Tagger arrived on the scene, the ladies quickly approved. He is charming via e-mail and text messages. He is a dad, so inherently he would understand parenting. He is a Jew (which comes with its own mashugana). He had come from a healthy/dysfunctional background, as I did, so there are many places where we can relate. I am excited about the potential!
Our first date was at the Corner Bakery in the San Fernando Valley. I remember the night vividly because it had been raining nonstop all day. I remember thinking he was likely going to flake on me because of the horrific weather. I remember exactly what I was wearing: a pair of cool jeans (the “ass jeans,” because these pants make my tush look better than it actually is), high-heeled boots and a baby blue V-neck sweater, with a funky, hip-looking scarf tied loosely around my neck. I thought I was rockin’ it.
What to wear for a date is always hard work for me. Being a mom, I feel I need to dress a certain way that maintains some class and dignity, yet still appear as a desirable, sexy woman: It’s a tough balance.
Growing up, I was very tomboyish. I never really felt comfortable in frilly girly stuff. I would wear dresses, but they were on the plainer side. I have never been much of a makeup wearer. I always kept my hair long and straight—not a lot of jewelry, etc.
So in my early twenties, when I started spending time with more women, I tried expanding my horizons a bit, trying to embrace my stunted femininity. But the truth is, I am a modest woman and never really learned how to accentuate my assets. I am not comfortable wearing fitted clothes. I have no cleavage to speak of, so a “low anything” that reveals my upper half reveals my “infected mosquito bites,” as my brother used to call them.
None of this means that I feel negative about my body. I am just shy and feel better covered up. So as I slither into my forties, I am working hard to find the happy place between wearing a burka and a bikini.
The reason I recall what I was wearing is because I also recall what he was wearing: worn jeans, gym shoes, and a stained black sweatshirt. My date must have rolled out of bed and into the Corner Bakery. Sweet.
Now, thank God, he was hot, because I looked past the disheveled mess sitting across from me with his leftover lunch on his shirt. I found myself enjoying a nice, easy chat with this completely unassuming man, who seemed a little uncomfortable in his own skin.
During our first meeting, I am having a little bit of a hard time focusing, because I am paying close attention to the questions I am being asked. I am on high alert as to whether Tagger knows anything about my public life.
I am never sure what someone knows about me before we meet face-to-face. Dating with my background has been difficult. I try and maintain as much anonymity and privacy as I can, hoping that people will meet me and want to get to know me, not the girl they have seen on TV. But people are curious and I have come across those who just want to gawk. I don’t ever give my last name and spare specific details about my life until the “reveal” is made.
It’s always a game of chicken for me, when I meet someone for the first time. Do they know or not? Over the years I have learned how to read the signs. In a normal conversation, you cover some basics: What do you do? Where do you work? Where are you from? Where is your family? Do you have siblings? So when someone avoids those areas of discussion, it’s usually an indicator that they know.
When that happens, I begin to dance with my answers. I hide behind my own shadow, self-conscious about what I am saying and how to alter my answers so that they don’t beg for more questions.
For the time before the inevitable shift in energy—after they finally figure out who I am, or I tell them—it’s awkward for me. I’m second-guessing them and double-checking myself.
But I also find myself relishing the mystery of it all. For a short while I can be who I am, and who I want to be seen as, not as the perceived crybaby everyone recalls from the trial.
But am I being myself? I struggle with not sharing everything right away, because it feels inauthentic not to talk about my brother and my family, and all that’s happened. I feel like a fraud.
Why shouldn’t I just put it all out there from the get-go? I am proud of my life, my brother, my speaking, my writing, my struggles, and my overcoming them. So then why do I cower?
The answer is easy: My life is messy. It’s confusing, sometimes it’s public, and it’s not just about me. So someone coming into it needs to be ready to take it all in. Ready for a fragile and vulnerable, yet strong and together woman who is seeking love and ready to be swept up and cared for. And because I have had this only truly happen to me once in my life, which left me with the worst broken heart I have ever experienced, I am cowering because I am scared that I will never meet the man capable enough to be with me.
In my history—and in my defense—there is an instantaneous change in the flow of conversation when the realization of who I am occurs. (And, truthfully, it’s the same reaction with anyone I meet, not just the men I date.) I can see the wheels spinning, so I usually wait a few minutes and then try to make them feel okay with the news so that we can continue to shoot the breeze. But sometimes it takes awhile to overcome the shock. I have had men cry like newborns, or apologize for not figuring out my identity sooner, or overwhelm me with information about where they were when the verdict was read, or experience an awkward silence until the surprise wears off.
I am not good at knowing if something is a sign of bad behavior, a case of first-meeting jitters, or because of the infamy surrounding my last name. Unfortunately, my biggest struggle has always been that I attach myself in the early stages of dating, when everyone is on his or her best behavior.
So when less-than-attractive behaviors show up, I make excuses. I am very protective of my heart, but I am also very trusting of people. I make an effort to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I have this ridiculous notion that people wouldn’t intend to hurt me, so I trust without regard—in an effort to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.
I assume people are good before I assume they are motivated by evil, which is quite extraordinary when you consider my curriculum vitae. I leave a lot of room for mistakes, out of a romantic inclination that sometimes it just takes time to get your ebb and flow working together.
But I escaped all of this agita on the first night I met Tagger, and I was so relieved. We didn’t discuss my “other life,” and so I have one more day of being the private me. We leave that night, agreeing to meet again, and I drive home in a torrential downpour, a smile plastered on my face.
* * *
Shortly thereafter, we make plans for a second date. We meet at a chain restaurant, Sisley Italian Kitchen, once again in the Valley, since it’s halfway for each of us. We settle into a comfortable conversation, and somehow we start to hover around “family.” I get nervous and decide to make my declaration before it gets awkward. There is something about this man that makes me feel safe in disclosing my biography, on my own terms.
After a bit of struggling and stammering, I begin to talk about the death of my brother.
“So, I have something to tell you, and it’s really hard for me, but I feel like I have to say it, and I hope you will bear with me.”
“Okay, you’ve got me a little nervous. Go ahead, I am listening,” he responds.
“
I wanted to be the one to tell you, in case you saw something or heard something about me or my family. Um, I told you my brother died. Well, he was murdered in 1994, in Brentwood, with a woman named Nicole.”
I stop talking then, so, hopefully, he can figure it out on his own. So I don’t have to say the rest.
“Oh, my God, are you serious? O. J. killed your brother? I would never have known. I am sorry. I didn’t even know you existed. I didn’t watch the case. I was in Europe when the verdict happened, and I just never followed it. I am sorry. I didn’t know about you. I knew about your dad, but I didn’t know about you.”
His apologies continue as I just sit and listen, waiting for him to stop explaining.
“It’s okay,” I sympathize. “I didn’t expect you to know, and honestly, I almost appreciate that you didn’t, but sometimes things come up and then it’s weird. I didn’t want you to Google me and then see all the shit that gets spewed.”
Tagger takes my hand in his and says, “I really appreciate you telling me that. It must have been really hard to say, and I am thankful you trusted me enough to tell me. I won’t Google you. I want to know you for you, not what the fuckin’ Internet says. I want to get to know this person in front of me, nothing else.”
I feel so relieved, but still scared about the ramifications of telling him my news. Men will stop seeing me because they think “I’m too fragile,” afraid that they’ll be the ones to push me over the emotional edge if we break up.
There are men who can’t date me because they think I am far superior to them, and they can’t measure up. One stated he had a “hero complex” when it came to me; another who couldn’t care less and stated he never really paid attention to the trial. What was all the “hullabaloo about, anyway?” he asked.
