From This Moment On

by Shania Twain

  Fred would email me quotes like this one from an anonymous author: “Love comes to those who still hope even though they’ve been disappointed, to those who still believe even though they’ve been betrayed, to those who still love even though they’ve been hurt before.” Whoever wrote these words must have had a Frederic Nicolas Thiébaud in his or her life, too. Or this one, from fiction writer Maria Robinson: “Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.” He was right, I knew it, and I also recognized how irresistible this beautiful person was becoming to me. It turned out that my heart was still connected after all, and I finally stopped fighting my true emotions. I was falling in love with him.

  The realization that our marriages were over was already nine months behind us. Nine months of emptiness, loneliness, fear of what was next, confusion over what had happened and why. There were still no answers, no closure or healing of the open wounds. Although I didn’t feel ready to open the door, kindness, understanding, and love were tapping. I just had to accept that it wasn’t my offenders tapping, the ones I expected to be offering these things I needed so badly. I had been so preoccupied with waiting for them to come knocking with compassion, explanation, and remorse that at first I couldn’t hear Fred, the one who really cared.

  The more time we spent together, however, the more I/we discovered how much we shared in common and that there was an undeniably natural bond forming between us. We had a surprisingly long list of things in common: sports, music, parenting, and our overall philosophies on life, and these launched us into hours of conversation, where time just disappeared. Soon it felt as though we were constantly running out of time, with never enough of it to be together. That December, I accompanied Fred on a business trip to Miami. While in Florida, we went skydiving. It was Fred’s idea, and when he asked me, my response was, “Why not?” I was ready to throw caution to the wind, to let go completely, to experience losing control by choice, unlike the loss of control I had over my marriage ending, who loved me, or who I loved. I wasn’t afraid, only ready to follow through with accepting that whether I lived through this experience or not was out of my hands, and that was part of the liberation for me: making a choice to do something potentially fatal, not needing to know what was going to happen next. That is truly letting go.

  We also took in a Michael Bublé concert at Madison Square Garden in New York before heading home to Switzerland in time for Christmas. We’d been listening to a lot of Bublé’s music, as Fred is a real fan of crooners, and we both love to dance to big-band swing, so it was a treat to see Michael in person. Two of our favorite tunes he recorded are “I’m Your Man” and “Everything.” It’s very romantic music, perfect for falling in love.

  Fred got his first taste of what it’s like to travel with a celebrity in our star-crazed culture. I had been living a hermetic existence in Switzerland for several years, so I was completely unprepared for the onslaught of paparazzi waiting for us the moment we landed in the United States. That was naïve of me, and I really should have known better. The flashing cameras caught us together but apart, so nobody knew what to make of this athletic-looking, handsome man who appeared to be with me. Fred wasn’t used to this, naturally, and found the intrusion very annoying—as anybody in his right mind would. We both realized quickly that from that point on, the only place for us to find privacy would be behind closed doors.

  Fred and I decided to spend our first Christmas as rejected spouses together in Verbier, a charming ski resort not far from our home. Even though we were finding solace through each other’s company and support, special occasions—especially Christmas and New Year’s—are tough when you’ve experienced deep loss. There are so many memories from the past that come flooding back to haunt you, reminders of how much has changed, that things will never be the same, and the finality and permanency hits you all over again. Fred and I were determined to face the future with bold hearts, however, and bring in the New Year with a positive attitude. We stayed busy with friends and family, and we would all have a splendid holiday and New Year’s together. I cooked my heart out; we laughed our heads off, filled up with food and fun, played seasonal music ad nauseam, and bathed in the atmosphere of Noel in the winter-land beauty of the Swiss Alps, with its snow, evergreens, and smoking chimneys. There were occasional lows—but we held each other up. And the seasonal cheer kept our hearts warm and cozy.

  December 28 would mark my fifteenth wedding anniversary. I was facing my first wedding anniversary separated from Mutt. It was Eja’s first Christmas without his father and overall, a struggle for me emotionally.

  Fred planned a surprise for me earlier in the week as my Christmas gift, but it didn’t pan out due to the weather, so the first opportunity for it to happen, ironically, fell on the twenty-eighth. My heart was broken. It was so hard not to think that, that very day a year ago, Marie-Anne was wishing us a happy anniversary, and all the while she was seducing my husband. It was going to take something powerful to change my focus that day, and little did I know that it could happen because of an incredibly special person.

  Fred’s amazing surprise was to ski with me to two airplanes, so Fred could get there first, that would take us to a Swiss glacier, where we would toast to new beginnings with a glass of champagne. This amazing day helped me forget my sorrow, created new memories for me at that time of year, and made me fall further in love with Fred. It was fifteen below zero with no wind, sunny, and we were alone. The pilots agreed to leave us for forty-five minutes on our glacier plateau so we could celebrate our excitement for life and love in complete peace. Fred presented me with a gorgeous watch engraved with a “love” dedication, and the date, and he presented it down on one knee. He had been to the site before me, as he’d gone ahead with his own pilot to carve out a bench in the snow, spray paint a huge, red heart over the white surface, and place roses along the perimeter. He even had a bottle of pink champagne and glasses chilling in the snow. It was magic, and Fred created this magic. He wanted to set a romantic atmosphere to declare his love for me. It was like a marriage proposal, only he wasn’t asking for a commitment of marriage. He was asking me to allow him to love me. “Sunshine,” he said, “just let me love you.” Even if I wasn’t ready for commitment, he wanted me to know how he felt, expecting nothing in return. He was merely asking me to accept the engraved watch as a token of his love. He wanted us to move into 2009 with him having declared his love for me.

  Fred had more romantic plans to come and loved to catch me off guard with the most beautiful ideas I could ever dream of. Fred is a romance god, and I lap it up. I’m spoiled rotten, and I admit it. Another one of his best was the time he rented his friend’s movie theater for the night to surprise me with the most elaborate, romantic experience. He walked me into the empty foyer of the movie house with my eyes closed and led me up to a table decorated with glowing tea candles, a bouquet of roses in the center, and champagne on ice. Fred had gone to the theater during lunch that day to set up everything, and he’d instructed his friend to light the candles just before we entered and then disappear so there was no one in sight. It was magical.

  Fred put on some of my favorite tunes while we danced and sipped champagne. I was so taken by this romantic surprise and never would have imagined there was more to come. Fred left me for about three minutes, and I assumed he’d gone off to the bathroom. Upon his return he said, “Now for the next part.” I was breathless, not believing there was a “next part.” How could there be more to this beautiful, thoughtful surprise? He walked me to the theater door with my eyes closed, and when he asked me to open them, I immediately began to tear up as he guided me to view the platform below. My eyes fell on a table for two draped in white linen with another vase of roses set beautifully for a romantic dinner. Fred had made the lighting very theatrical, with blue and red color gels on the spotlights, aimed to highlight our private table. Candles were lit all around the edge of the platform, and the rest of the room was bl
ack. It was incredibly dramatic and looked like a set for a play.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening, and just as I was trying to get my head around how on earth he put all this together, Fred began to escort me down to the table, and a side door swung open. A formally dressed waiter came in with our first course as if he’d walked on the set from backstage, his timing perfectly cued. Fred chose the menu himself right down to the dessert, and the restaurant was conveniently next door to the theater. It was so gorgeous and touching. I was in awe. The waiter was caught up in the whole romantic spirit of it and had a smile from ear to ear as he swept in and out from the theater with our delights. Fred had thought of everything. This was not only the most romantic thing I had ever experienced, it was the most romantic thing I’d ever heard of. Fred is full of these ideas, and from small to elaborate, he fills my life with surprise and wonder every day.

  It’s true I swore I would never allow myself to love again, but Fred is impossible not to love. This man goes the extra mile and loves in a truly unconditional way. Pure, honest, selfless love. Sweet, humble, compassionate. Little by little, he would win my heart.

  31

  Rearview Mirror

  Three years after our hearts were broken, together, I feel more love now than any other emotion I’ve felt since that time. I consider myself the luckiest woman on the planet that I have Fred to share the rest of my life with. Our wedding day was January 1, 2011, 1/1/11. It was a big decision to take the plunge of tying the knot, not because we had any doubts regarding our love for each other, but for me personally, I was torn by my knowledge that a wedding and marriage contract weren’t going to make me any less or more committed to the relationship. One of the things that did it for me was that I was uncomfortable calling Fred my boyfriend. It just seemed like such a juvenile term at forty-five years old. Call me old-fashioned, but Fred prefers the word traditional. In any case, we both agreed that we were in love, wanted to spend our lives together, and knew more than ever before what it meant to make a lifelong commitment. That was what we wanted, together.

  We’ve grown together through a very unusual set of circumstances, and we both agree that we’ve developed a unique love as a result. We’re so grateful for having discovered each other in this new light. If our lover can also be our best friend, we’ve found the ultimate partner. I’ve never experienced this as completely as I do with Fred. I trust his observations of me and am not ashamed to say that I rely on him to hold up the mirror for me.

  Fred makes me feel good about myself and helps me focus more on my positive attributes rather than my faults. He helps me see that although I may never be completely satisfied with myself, he is, and there is no pressure from him to be anything other than who I already am. This is precious, and I value this love, acceptance, and appreciation. I am loved, and I know it; what more could I ask for?

  Passion for romance is something that I have rediscovered since allowing myself to love and be loved by Fred. I’ll be honest: when your husband leaves you, and falls into the arms of your close friend, the other woman, your self-esteem can really suffer. I was sure that there must be something wrong with me. The rejection made me feel self-conscious, and I was sure that no man would desire me. I’d always been rather conservative when it came to romantic intimacy, not being terribly open or comfortable expressing myself with a new lover. Just feeling shy about it, basically. I had to know my partner well before feeling safe and confident in the bedroom. It was going to take strong communication with a very sensitive partner for me to feel appreciated again romantically. When it came to romance, Fred was able to give me back the confidence I needed to relax about loving again.

  Physical attraction is essential to a healthy romantic relationship, and, thankfully, there is no shortage of that between the two of us. Fred makes me feel as if I’m the most gorgeous woman on the planet. Of course, I know I’m not, but he means it and shows it. When I tell Fred that I’m feeling fat and ugly or have general complaints about my appearance, he says, “Well, Sunshine, I’m just going to have to try harder. I guess I’m not doing my job, and no matter how many times a day I have to tell you how beautiful and sexy you are, I’m going to say it until you believe me.” He seems so genuinely perplexed when my self-image is low. What a gift! I wish I could love myself as much as he loves me. I think this is a worthy goal to work toward, and so I put it on my list of priorities.

  The irony is that I have a man who is highly attracted to me, and yet I’m more dissatisfied with my body lately than I’ve ever been in my life. The best years of my fitness and body shape were during my first marriage, as I was so physically active and just younger. I had very little extra body fat, an hourglass silhouette, and a taut tummy, even after the birth of my son. But lately my body has gone through a change that I’m not liking. I was reading that emotional stress can cause weight gain, especially in the abdomen area, and I believe it. For the first time in my life, I have cellulite on my stomach. In fact, I have a flabby layer of fat over my entire body. I’m not complaining about size here, I’m talking about texture and shape. These unwanted changes came on over the course of just a few months following the discovery of the betrayal, and I’ve had a very hard time getting rid of it. In comparison to the high percentage of surgically perked and plumped breasts today, mine seem droopier than usual, and probably really are. I’m letting “the girls” hang loose under my sweat clothes around the house and when someone comes to the door, I cross my arms under them for support to avoid making it obvious that I’m not wearing a bra but should be. Fred thinks I have a warped sense of my body image and am too critical. Maybe he’s right.

  I’m pretty insecure about my changing body, as it came about so suddenly that I haven’t had time to get my head around it yet. I asked Fred recently, “What if I can’t get rid of my flab? Will you be okay with that?” He said exactly the right thing and reassured me that with or without my squishy layer, he’s still totally attracted to me. I lecture myself regularly to just be happy with what I have and even happier that I have a man who is, too. When I express this nagging insecurity about my self-image to Fred, he pulls out his research ammunition, and as I roll my eyes he reminds me that in 2009 Hello! magazine voted me “Most Beautiful Canadian,” and a study by researchers at the University of Toronto cited me, actress Jessica Alba, and model Elizabeth Hurley as having perfectly proportioned faces. Fred found that one in an actual scientific journal, Vision Research; he loves researching this stuff, taking pleasure in using it as a means of turning my self-confidence around. Now, that’s what I call “a good man,” and every woman deserves one! I prefer to remain realistic about what I really look like when I’m not glammed up. The only other option is to remove all mirrors from the house, which sometimes Fred threatens to do when he feels I’m being too hard on myself.

  I’ve decided to be proactive about my changing body and my attitude toward my new self-image. I’ve started by being realistic. I had the body of a twenty-five-year-old until I was forty-two, and seemingly overnight, I now have the body of a forty-five-year-old. So, part of my daily practice is to stop and reflect when I find I’m beating myself up over it, and to take action rather than moan. I’ve hiked up my level of physical activity and clamped down on my eating habits, but without my whole quality of life going to pot (as my new potbelly is enough pot for me to deal with as it is), and I remember to balance pleasure with discipline. I’ll let you know how it goes, but for now, I’m still on the road to finding the solution to all this change. If I don’t see any results within a reasonable amount of time, then I will resign myself to learning to live with it and concentrate on changing my attitude and not being so hard on myself.

  There has to be a point in our lives where we simply accept that time catches up with us eventually. As much as medical advancements have made it possible to forestall aging, I’m not sure I’m someone who is willing to invest excessive time and effort in the quest to preserve beauty. The healthier thing to do, it
seems to me, is to learn to be comfortable in your own skin and love yourself as you are. Besides, the character lines on my face have branded me with a number somewhere in the range of my real age.

  At the moment I’m clearly at a crossroads with my self-image. Maybe I’m entering a phase of my life where this will become a never-ending battle from here on out. Maybe my hormones have taken my body in a new direction, and there is nothing I can do about it. Maybe at forty-five, this is my new body, like it or lump it, lumps and all.

  The first time I think I even gave any thought to the appearance of my body was in the seventh grade. I was athletic and still tomboyish; skinny and scrawny, but strong, with muscular legs. Then I sprouted, or at least part of me did. At twelve, I was already a C cup, busting out of last year’s shirts and developing an hourglass shape. One day while I was walking down the hallway at Pinecrest Junior High, a boy reached out and ripped open my snap-up, red-and-white-checkered shirt. I was embarrassed, of course, but mostly pissed at the nervy kid who did it. I never let boys intimidate me and had their number at an early age; most were quite sexist in an instinctive way, almost as though they couldn’t help it or something.

  I wasn’t overweight, but I started noticing what fat was. I saw a classmate wearing very short shorts walking toward me. She was tanned and pretty, but I noticed her thighs jiggling as she walked. My thighs were hard, carved, and masculine. I was proud of my boyish athleticism and found her jiggly thighs unattractive. The tomboy in me saw this as a sign of someone lazy and soft. A girly girl was behind those thighs; someone weak, fragile, and not equal to boys. A girl with thighs like that couldn’t possibly run as fast, or kick as hard, or jump as far, or stand as firm.

  As my jiggly-thighed classmate came closer, I noticed that not only was she jiggly, she was bumpy, too. Each time she took a step, I could see a blanket of lumpy, bumpy skin. Gross! I thought. What is that? A boy with me said, “Eilleen, you’ll never look like that.” Man, I thought, I hope not.