Back in the Dating Game by:Sandra Prior
My marriage ended with a whimper, not a bang
My marriage ended with a whimper, not a bang. After nine years together, my wife and I split up in a parking lot. Not that I didn't see it coming. There had been couples counseling, crying fits and final chances. She wanted to raise kids in a seaside town. I wanted kids, too: in the city. At least that's what we said the issue was. We were two emotional Marxists, incapable of compromise, heading toward mutually assured destruction.
'It's just not working,' she said. For once in my life, I said nothing. My first thought was, A parking lot? Sitting in a 4x4? C'mon, you can do better than that.
We rode home in silence. At the house, I threw some clothes into two duffel bags and laughed bitterly at the wallpaper I'd been peeling off our bedroom walls, prep work for a renovation that would never happen. I tossed my CDs into a crate and packed up my car for my move to the city. I was fine for a little while, then flopped on the kitchen floor, bawling uncontrollably. My wife wondered if she should call the paramedics.
Finally, I gathered myself up and drove away. Five minutes later, she called me. 'Aha,' I smirked. Second thoughts already. 'Hey, you forgot your laptop.'
I waited at a petrol station where I used to make goofy faces at her while filling up the 4x4. A few minutes later, she arrived, handed me my computer bag, and was gone. I threw it on the passenger side, took a breath and steeled myself for a long drive and the first day of the rest of my life.
Then it hit me. 'Damn it.' I screamed. Not on account of her. I just remembered my car's CD player had been swiped the week before. I was about to be left alone with my thoughts for hundreds of kilometres.
God, being divorced was going to suck. Or maybe not. At first, I found being single again at age 36 daunting. During nearly a decade in the matrimonial cocoon, much had happened. Internet dating and instant communication had altered the way men and women paired off.
Could you flirt endlessly with a pretty girl via email and text messages now? Yes. Could the same girl show up at a party with a never-before mentioned boyfriend? Yes.
As Bill Murray's character experiences in Groundhog Day, massive repetition led to gradual enlightenment. Well, 'enlightenment' might be the wrong word. I still give thanks to Jesus, Allah and Zeus for the moment when a spunky make up artist told me we could 'hook up' whenever I was in town.
I thought this meant we could have a night of dinner and dancing. She set me straight 'hooking up' meant we could call each other whenever I was in town and have sex.
But, like Murray, who is forced to relive the worst day in his life over and over again until he changes, I came to realize that as a single male I had no one to blame but myself. My character was my karma, and if I wanted to change my life, be happy or find whatever your vision of enlightenment is, the responsibility was mine.
A high percentage of first marriages end in divorce, and a cottage industry has sprung up to advise men on their journey through Denial, Rage and Acceptance.
My stages of grief could more aptly be described as Fear, More Fear and Ultimate Fear. So take your pick: read a namby-pamby self-help book or follow me on an X-rated journey that includes stops in the garden of earthly delights and Candy Land's Molasses Swamp. All I ask is this: don't judge me. Mistakes were made. Dignity was misplaced. I was flying without instruments. Count yourself lucky; at least you have a navigator.
The First Date
Unlike some of my pasty-white buddies who broke up with their wives and got all gangsta, constantly blasting 'women are nothing but whores and bitches' from their car stereos, I didn't sour on love. Quite the contrary, I truly thought I might fall in love again soon. How soon? I didn't know - maybe on my first date in nine years?
She was an editor at a women's magazine who seemed, via email and a brief phone chat, nice and non-threatening. We arranged to meet at a bar. And then I began a disconcerting ritual I call first-date prep. In short, Rodrick Industries closes for business the day of a first date. Gentlemen, don't try this at work: it will get you fired. But I'm a writer; there's rarely anything that can't be pushed back in the service of freaking myself out.
For Kelly, the troops began mobilizing the night before. I debated when to shave so I'd have enough stubble to look cool, but not enough to look like a vagrant. Unfortunately, the dull razor left a possible-suicide-attempt-gone-awry gouge on my neck. I bought condoms and debated whether to put one in my wallet; that lasted three or four hours. Eventually, I realized 'carrying' might give off the aura that I'm a player. That's not me. But why did I spend the rest of the afternoon making a mix CD in case of a triumphant return?
That night, I approached the rendezvous point right on time. As Coldplay played at a volume even Chris Martin would disapprove of, I saw a woman who matched the description of Kelly, my set-up girl. With the melodic mope rock strumming away in my ears, I mouthed 'Kelly' in her direction. She nodded yes; we embraced and agreed to head out for quieter climes. So far, I was rocking the party that rocks the party.
But as we nursed a second drink and made excruciatingly awkward conversation, I gamely asked how long she had known Francis, our matchmaker. 'I don't know any Francis,' she said. The room spun a bit. 'Is your name Kelly? I asked. 'No, it's Karen. Are you Scott?'
On my first date in nine years, I'd managed to leave the bar with the wrong woman. I returned to the scene of the crime with Karen, hoping to make a prisoner exchange. I found Kelly and Scott drinking at the bar. He was bald and hairy. Kelly looked like a beautiful bank hostage waiting for the right moment to crawl to safety.
Kelly and I ended up hanging out for a few instructive weeks. After our second or third date, she invited me back up to her flat, pulled the quilt off her bed, sat down and started showing me family pictures. She sat very close to me. Her knee collided with mine. Repeatedly. I looked at the photos for about a half hour, then got up, kissed her on the cheek, and left. She looked baffled.
Later, I related the incident to a buddy. 'She invites you up and sits on her bed?' he asked, his eyes popping out of his head. He then spoke to me slowly, as if I was in the special class. 'Do You Know What That Means?' I swirled the ice in my glass and gave him a perplexed look. 'No, what?'
'Uh, dude, she wanted to have sex with you.' Oh. When I tried to act upon this intelligence, I learnt about the modern phenomenon known as cock blocking. The next week, I took Kelly to the cricket. My best friend, Sam, went separately with another date. Afterwards, we met up for a drink. He clamped his hand on my shoulder. 'You know,' he said, 'I was watching the two of you. It's clear you don't have chemistry. You shouldn't waste your time on her.'
Sam had been my best man during my first trip down the aisle, so I took his advice and stopped seeing Kelly. Sam and I drifted apart for a few months. I then heard through a mutual friend that he was in a hot and heavy relationship with - wait for it - Kelly. A year later, they married. I was invited to the wedding but, in a final indignity, wasn't allowed to bring a date. I never got them a present. Clearly, I had a lot to learn.
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