Reality is basically crap.
Reality. Oh, sweet, life-sucking reality.
Reality is…
(Hold on tight to something, I’m about to drop an F-bomb)
Reality is I am forty, and my body has decided to exact revenge on me for all the fun I had in my twenties. Anyone who says forty is the new twenty can suck it—if they can bend over enough to reach it. It’s more like the new ninety, because you’re now seriously pondering when Death will ring your doorbell in the form of those everyday pains and aches that now torture your once hot, tight body.
I posted something to Facebook that said, “I just met with a bunch of crow’s feet in the mirror.” Seventy-three twenty-four-year-olds answered me back. I gagged back the curses I wanted to write, swallowed them whole. Then, I was met with a sneezing fit that catapulted me off my damn chair to change my underwear, because as I have explained before, I am forty. My bladder thinks it’s hysterically funny to let go of whatever it might be holding at the most precarious of times. The four-year-old stood at the bathroom door with her arms folded, and fell into a fit of high-pitched squealing giggles, because mommy peed her pants. Again. Then she thoughtfully asked me if I was in need of one of her old diapers. Ah, that kid. They should all come with warning labels, those little people. Those life-sucking, fun-stealing, wonderful little people.
Kids.
Nobody told me what having a kid or two was really freaking like—especially having kids in your thirties. Nobody explained to me what it would be like to have girls. Two of them. I have rhinestones everywhere. Everywhere. As soon as I clean them up, they pop up again, laughing their little gleaming rhinestone heads at me. And the scary part is I have never bought a damn thing that had rhinestones on it, so where the heck are these little sparkly things coming from?
And what did this all do to me, made me eat a whole box of Oreo cookies. Yeah. Like the McDonald’s meal wasn’t enough. I was all hyped up then, pacing, with sugar pounding through my veins. I felt like someone slipped me a crappy life while I wasn’t looking.
Again, certainly not what I ordered.
I couldn’t for the life of me pinpoint when I’d completely lost it. Maybe it was after the third bite of apple pie and first glass of wine or the last bite of pie and the last sip of the second glass of wine. Whenever it was, I realized I needed a change, a big one.
Slowly, I laid all my food down, and stepped away. I had my mother sit with the girls and decided to go visit my husband at work. No worries, I wasn’t drunk or buzzed. I have already established I’m no light weight.
My husband. My best friend, my soul mate, the guy I’ve been married to for twenty years, the love of my life, blah-blah-blah. I walked into his office, unannounced, without knocking to find him balls deep in some unwrinkled, non-cellulite collecting, undernourished side-piece.
This could not be happening to me. No freaking way.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I screamed, dropping everything I had in my hands onto the floor (which included a box of Twinkies I wanted to share with him). My stomach flew up into my throat, which was threatening to share my regurgitated fast food feast with everybody in the room.
He scrambled off the couch, pulling up his pants, stuttering and screaming back at me. “Don’t you knock? You just don’t walk into someone’s office like that!”
Not being able to control any part of my anger, I swiped everything off his desk into a fluttering, thudding pile of junk on the floor. “Yes, you cheating piece of filth. Let’s talk about what I did wrong, and not what I just walked into, shall we?” I stormed up to his face and poked him hard in the chest with my index finger. “You’re disgusting.” His little friend sat still, lacy pink panties still around her thin little ankles.
That was all I could say, because there were no other words, none. But my husband? Oh, he had a ton to say, a ton.
Apparently, it was too difficult for him to have stayed in love with someone who loves to eat, was always on her computer writing, reads way too much, and squeals way too high for imaginary book boyfriends (more so than I ever did for him. Well, duh. What else did he think I’d be doing while he was “working late?”) And there is no such thing as reading too much, that’s like saying I was too educated for him. I bet Ms. Spread Eagle Skinny Nonfat Latte, the one I had just caught him getting to know en route through the vagina, doesn’t know how to read.
To make the entire situation even worse was what Ms. Spread Eagle called me when I wouldn’t shut the door, allowing the entire office to see the debauchery that was afoot, or a-vagina in this case. “Shut the door you stupid fat pig!” she squealed.
“Hold on, wait one second,” the judge interjects. “Are you telling me that this woman, this lecher, had the audacity to call you a ‘fat pig’ right after you catch her having sexual relations with your husband?”
“Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.” I confirm.
“Christine, don’t forget to tell her the best part. Tell her what she had on,” Angelisa urges.
“Oh my God, that’s right… she was wearing… Ma’am, do you know what a Bedazzler is?”
The judge’s eyes widen.
“I swear to you,” I hold up my right hand and scan the room for a Bible only to come up short. “She was bedazzled down below with rhinestones, that reflected rainbows off it. Like a little magical glittery box. Scary part? She wasn’t wearing any panties. Those were around her ankles.”
“Oh Heavens—alright, go on. I have a full docket. I don’t have all day,” the judge urges. She looks at me with wide pleading eyes; she’s engrossed in the story, so I just shrug and continue.
Anyway, I made sure to point out that Skinny McLatte was more of a pig than I could ever be, since she was the one having a secret relationship with someone else’s husband. I was just overweight. What I did was not morally incorrect; it only hurt me.
There was nothing I could do but throw my damn box of Twinkies at them, and realize she could have him. I’ll tell you why, because in that agonizing moment right after my heart was ripped out of my chest, our entire relationship flashed before my eyes and most of it was me always wanting more, always waiting, and always cleaning up messes. I was tired of being unappreciated; let it be his turn now to feel loss. I was done. I had given up so much for my husband and my family, though no one seemed to realize that.
I didn’t want to mourn for the person I was. I didn’t want to be twenty-something and back to my tiny before-kids body and relive every mistake I made. What a useless fantasy that would be, there’s no going backward only forward. I wanted to be me, as I am, only shined up a bit, the best me I could come up with.
I stormed out of his office. The walk to that front door was the hardest thing my ego had ever had to endure. Everyone in that office was standing up in their little cage-like cubicles, peeking over the walls to watch the most hurtful humiliating event in my life. Tears poured down my cheeks, and by the time I reached the exit, loud uncontrollable sobs escaped my lips. I will never forget their faces. How each one of those people looked at me as I made that walk of shame through their gauntlet of sympathetic stares. Worse yet, I’ll never forget the way my husband’s face looked as he gave himself to another woman. He hadn’t looked like that at me for years.
I dragged myself to my car and locked myself in. Then, I completely broke down. Tears and snot everywhere. I’m ashamed to say that I stayed for a good thirty minutes, sitting in my car, watching that door. The boy I fell in love with all those years ago would have run out after me. He would have begged me to forgive him, and promised never to hurt me again.
Maybe not.
No, definitely not.
That boy I fell in love with when I was eighteen would have never hurt me like this. I was his world—he was mine. That man in there with that woman wasn’t the boy I’d fallen in love with, not anymore.
The boy I loved was gone.
After a few well-deserved days of mourning for t
he death of my marriage, I called Angelisa. “I know I have to make a change. My butt knocks things over that I’m just not near, and I need to get laid,” I relayed the entire tragic story of my oldness, weight gain, and sudden loss of regular bi-monthly boring sex.
“He really told you that you read too much?” she asked, apparently the only thing she was surprised by.
“The man had a complaint for everything I had ever done, right or wrong. It doesn’t matter now, right from his office I hit the lawyer’s office, and I had the divorce papers drawn up. The End. And honestly, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Oookay.”
“Because, seriously, I’m too old to waste any more time on it.”
“You aren’t old.”
“You’re just saying that because we’re the same age and if I’m old that would mean you’re old too. Anyway, I have a proposition for you. You are going to want to say no, but you can’t.”
“Hit me with it, I’m listening,” she said.
I positioned my phone closer to my mouth; this was a serious situation, “Remember that book signing that we both wanted to go to in Vegas at the end of the summer?”
“Yeah…”
“We’re going. I’m picking you up in a few days,” I announced.
“Wait. Huh? It’s May. The signing isn’t until the end of August.”
“Yeah, about that. All of our kids will be in camp for the entire summer, right?” I asked. There was no way I could let her say no. I’d already booked our rooms. That town is expensive. Not that I cared, I used the cheater’s credit card. I laughed maniacally.
“Correct,” she answered. “What the hell are you laughing at?”
“My husband is a loser,” I stated, trying really hard to stop the maniacal laughter.
“Er… yeah… I agree.” I could tell she thought I was cracking. I bet she was online as we spoke searching the Internet for comfortable designer straightjackets in triple x.
“Your husband’s working in Michigan and won’t be home for months, and you’re off for the entire summer,” I continued, my laughter abruptly halted. This was serious business.
“Land the plane. Stop flying around—get to the point. Tell me what the plan is.”
“I’m driving to Ohio to pick you up, and we’re heading to Vegas. It gives you almost three full weeks to get ready. Once my kids leave for camp in June, I’m coming to get you. A long life-changing-healthy-eating-mid-life-crisis road trip. Just me and you,” I spat out.
“Ha. Ha. Dream big my friend, dream big,” she laughed herself into a coughing fit that lasted two whole minutes and ended with gasps of air intake and choking sounds.
“Are you finished dying? Because I’m serious over here,” I huffed, dramatically.
“I think it would be better for us both to visit a doctor, go on a specific diet plan, adhere to said diet plan and add in some exercise. We could watch our newsfeed on the day of the signing and look longingly at all the pictures of the skinny chicks getting their books signed,” she said.
“Gah! Don’t you get it? I want to be one of those skinny chicks at the signing with you beside me. Let’s go! Let’s just do something spontaneous and crazy!” I screamed, waving my hands in the air to help make my point, to absolutely no one since I was alone on the phone.
“Right. Sure. Ooor, we could do Weight Watchers online together, and we could walk and talk on the phone at the same time every night for exercise. It’ll be like having an exercise buddy. How about that?” she asked hopefully.
“That plan sucks. Let’s go on an adventure,” I cheered. I was actually standing up, bouncing on the balls of my feet, one fist in the air.
“Isn’t there a little book signing near you? Just go somewhere close and fan-girl a bit, let your hair down, and have some fun at a nightclub. Why go all the way to Vegas?” Papers shuffled in the background, just under her voice. Was she reading a magazine?
“Because I hear that Vegas is the land of all you could bang buffets—which I’m starving for. I need an adventure,” I laughed, “and there’s nothing you can say to talk me out of it.”
“This sounds like it wouldn’t end well for either of us. Just buy an exercise bike and a stronger vibrator.”
“I think it would be more fun to ride a variety men all the way to Vegas than ride an exercise bike,” I laughed.
There was a moment of hesitation. “Eewwwww. But write that down, save all pornographic talk for our novels. Okay, let’s be serious for a minute. Why don’t we talk about your eating and exercise habits…”
“My eating habits? If it’s not nailed down, I’m chewing on it, and my exercise habits are just shy of almost dead. We need to do this. I’m not taking no for an answer. We need to do this before we get gallstones, bad knees, and hypertension. I’ll be in Ohio in a few days. BYE!” I might have hung up the phone on her and shut it off, so she couldn’t negate my insane decision.
I was going to do this. I had to, and I’d be dragging her along with me, by the hair if need be. It’s what a good friend would do. There was no way I was going to stick around my house by myself and be depressed. I couldn’t anymore. It felt like the walls were closing in on me, and all I thought about was that idiot’s cheating face.
The very next day, I watched the camp bus pull away with my two children, and I waved frantically at them with one hand. The jackass of a man I spent half my life with waving alongside me. He’d come back home to gather his belongings. He looked ragged and worn out. I was happy about that. I hoped one day he understood how wrong he had been to do what he did. I hoped he got to the point where he would never forgive himself for throwing what we had away.
Because I never would.
“How’s your fuck buddy?” I asked him when the bus turned the corner.
“Chris… it wasn’t what you think…” he started. Not what I think? I thought it was my husband having sex with someone else, what did he think he was doing?
Forget it, I didn’t even want to know. I walked away from him mid-sentence; he didn’t deserve my listening skills, which were poor to begin with. He of all people should have known that.
Opening the hall closet, which incidentally slammed against his cheating head, I pulled out my already packed bag and began rolling it to the door, laughing of course. One of the wheels flickered with a nervous stutter, like it needed to get the Hell out of dodge just as much as me.
“Where the Hell are you going? Don’t you think we should talk this through?” he asked, hurling the closet door closed again. “Don’t you think we need to discuss things? Make things right?”
“Nope.” I opened the front door and took a long deep inhale just before I stepped out into my freedom. Uncharted territories. My belly fluttered. Holy crap, I have never done anything like this as an adult. It’s been long overdue. “You signed the divorce papers as well as I. I’ll drop them in the mail on the way to where I’m headed,” I said, stepping onto the front porch. I wouldn’t turn my head to look at him. I didn’t want to falter. I didn’t want to crumble. And I sure as Hell didn’t want him to see me cry over him.
Ever again.
“Where are you going?” he asked, stomping out after me. He tried to step in front of me, almost causing both of us to stumble down the steps.
“Well, that’s none of your business anymore is it?” I answered, looking into the distance.
“Are you trying to prove something here? What’s this all about?”
I turned to look into his tired eyes. “It’s all about me now. I just have to go.”
I yanked on my suitcase and headed for the car when Scott grabbed my free hand, and pulled me up against him. His arms wrapped around me, and for a brief moment, they held on to me like they truly didn’t want to let me go.
Then, he tried to kiss me.
His head lowered, and he gently pressed his lips against mine. I couldn’t remember the last time we had kissed. But it was exactly at that moment I knew that staying
with him was not an option. Kisses should never feel like obligations. Our marriage was over. I just needed to go. So I did. I pushed off of him and smiled. Then, I walked away.
And maybe it wasn’t one of my most brilliant decisions, leaving everything for three months, and being selfish. But we all know that the worst decisions make the best stories.
And all my decisions were about to go bad.
Twitter: Can someone WIPE the slate clean? #marriageprobs #TripleX
I did not have gallstones. Christine could say whatever the heck she wanted about her health, but I did not have gallstones. I had a “fatty” gallbladder years ago, and I had that nasty, fatty thing ripped the heck out. Apparently, gall bladder problems come with the third kid. Thanks a lot Bryce for ripping up my insides and screwing with my gall bladder, making it “fatty” and faulty. Who wants to walk around with a fatty anything, unless you rolled it and smoked it? And I have to say: I was not, repeat not, driving to Vegas with anyone.
Truthfully, my kids weren’t going to be at camp, although that is what I’d been telling everyone. I’d been lying out my giant caboose about my kids, my life, and my marriage. My kids were staying in Michigan this summer with their father. He left. Matt, my husband, packed up and took a 9-month “project” in the U.P. Oh the things that I wanted to call the U.P., but apparently the U.P. just meant the “Upper Peninsula.” We were, are, heck, I don’t know. PROBLEMS. Anyway, we’re taking a few months to decide what we’re going to do about our marriage. He wanted out. I knew he did. I got it. I was a nightmare to live with, a full-out, whining, complaining, horrifying wife and mother, who matched her Xanax intake with her M&Ms. My husband couldn’t get out of here fast enough--seemed like the kids wanted an out too when I told them about spending the summer with their dad in some dinky apartment in Michigan.
#TripleX Page 2
