sarahntastic

I didn’t want to get married the first or the second time I did so.  The first time I was trying to out-reverse psychology my parents.  I ended up married.  Sobbing and hyperventilating down the aisle, yet still ended up married at 19.  The second time was for pragmatic reasons that ultimately were for naught, yet there I was, married again.

Neither time did I think I was following through on a life-long desire to partner up with someone.  In fact, both times I knew very well the decisions would likely lead me to disaster of some sort.  I’m the person who desired love and commitment more than anyone I knew, even at a young age, but never, ever did I think that meant marriage.

I believe in long-term relationships.  I believe in fidelity and commitment and partnership and team work and building a family and sharing lives.  More than a lot of people I know, certainly.

I think it is unnatural for humans to spend long periods of our lives alone.

I think we are at our best when we live with and alongside someone we care for deeply, support faithfully, trust absolutely.  He is the person you are willing to get dressed in front of unabashedly.  He is the person you know you can puke in front of and in return he can do the same.  And then you are willing to clean up the sick and the poop and the snotty kleenex.  We know what the other wants to say, even when we can’t spit it out.  We know favorites:  food, perfume, magazines, literature, films, television.  Because this is how you are for someone you love.

And you might argue.  You might even fight hard and mean and tough once in a while.  But those times are rare.  Because you know that you cannot make it if this is how you are most of the time.  Because it is how things were before, and it never worked.  Because none of the others were the one.

None of this means I care to be married.  Certainly there are pragmatic reasons that might change my mind like getting health insurance and making end-of-life decisions.  But there are other ways to manage these things.

I believe in forever more, happily ever after, not wanting something good to end, ever.  But all of this does not mean marriage to me.  And frankly, I think I’ve used up my marriage tries.  I gladly give up any more to those who legally cannot marry but want to.

Her father was a raging alcoholic.  He beat them all for his own personal recreation.  Her mother, her brother, her.  He threw her against the brick fireplace and broke her clavicle when she was a small child.  He berated them all; he viciously beat them all.  And yet somehow she was his favorite.  She stared him in the eye while he beat the shit out of her.  He had a respect for her that he didn’t have for her mother and brother.  Because of this, her mother resented her and abused her emotionally her entire life.  She would spend most of her adult life chasing her mother’s love.

In 1968, she was 17, angry, and hurt because her father forced her home from college simply because she was dating a Jewish guy.  Otherwise she wouldn’t have been home that day when he returned from after-work drinking, enraged by Black Panthers and hippies and socialists.  He beat her while she sat in a kitchen chair, staring at him.  When he was finally done, she left, with nothing.  She got in her car and drove 200 miles west to a family friend.  She had the phone number of a former college acquaintance from California.  She called.  He drove 1,500 miles to get her.  She left with him and just a few clothes she had sewn for herself, waiting for this kid to come get her.  She wouldn’t return to her home state for many years.

He was angry and hurt, too.  He left college because the money ran out.  He had a large, close family, but he was the youngest and left behind a lot.  In 1968 he was 18.  He drove 1,500 miles to rescue someone he barely knew.  He brought her to California, and she was immediately embraced by his family.  His mother loved her as her own from the start.  His mother said, whenever anyone asked how she could take in a stranger, “she was a child. I never understood how her own parents could throw away their child.  Now she is my daughter.”

After a year living and working together, she asked him if they were going to get married.  They did.

Then they had three kids.  And lots of pets.  And a house with a pool.  And vacations.  And their kids grew up.

And they stayed married.  Continue to stay married.

After he saved her and she saved him.

Get married young, stay married forever.

1969

1991

When she married my dad in 1969, she was 19.

When I married in 1991, I was 19.

I thank all that is good and right in the world that the best of these marriages is still in tact, successful, fun, silly, weird, crazy, and loving.

I was married to a wealthy man from a wealthy family.  I don’t say this to brag my way out of your heart.  Obviously you know me well enough to know I wouldn’t do such a thing.  But just to lay this out:  I had an engagement ring and jewelry I was embarrassed to own, and never wore, mostly because its value was the same as a home in Silicon Valley; extravagant trips; extravagant gifts; gorgeous cars; successful investments; and so on.

But none of it meant anything to me.  Because I wanted a rich marriage, not a rich husband.  My former mother-in-law actually brought thousands of dollars worth of jewelry to me the day she arrived to take her son home to marry another woman.  My parting gifts, apparently.  I used it as an opportunity to finally tell her no.  She thought I was foolish to turn down the payoff.

As many nice things I’ve owned, seen, done, nothing matters if, well, if it doesn’t matter.

So the other day a friend said a particular car is sexy, and my reply was “I don’t think cars are sexy, I think paying rent is sexy.”  And by that I mean, taking care of your family in the simplest way is sexy.  Cars? eh. I’ve had them.  But trust, reliability, hysterical funnies, generosity of one’s heart?  Much, much sexier than a car.

*  “did you just say ‘paying rent’ is sexy?” quoted from this funny guy.

I got married when I was 19 because I must have been in Bizarro World….doing the opposite of anything normal. Right when we should have broken up, we got married. I walked down the aisle SOBBING, everyone under the impression I was  happy, but really I couldn’t believe the mess I was about to get myself into. (Come on, adults, did you really think a 19-year old should be marrying an idiot?) But I tried, I worked, I was a good wife, a good cook, a good housekeeper (this last one might be a lie). I survived many plates of food thrown over my head, the remote thrown at me many times, being called pretty much every nasty name in the book, until the day, four years into all this, he tells me he’s not in love and we need to get a divorce.

Are you fucking kidding me?  YOU, Asshole of the Planet, want to divorce ME?

I was unimaginably relieved. Thankfully he came from a broken home so divorce was an acceptable solution to him.  I knew nothing of divorce, I had no idea it was an option.  I mean, my parents have been mostly happily married for forty years, for chrissakes.

So right when we are going to go our separate ways, the fucker tells me that, by the way, he cheated on me a few times over the last year. Really? This was necessary?  Now is the time for honesty and clearing the air?  No, I say no, it’s not.  I prefer naivety.

However, it became apparent I needed this punch in the gut in order to deal with the next 10 years of cheating.

About a year after my divorce, C was my next cheater boyfriend. It took me a while to realize it, caught up as I was in adoring this fucking gorgeous, sweet, generous, smart man. It was a bit more difficult to figure it out considering he was at my apartment every night. Well, of course, not every night. There were a few times here and there he couldn’t make it, couldn’t get away from work. This is the man who helped me develop my theory about a personality trait in certain men:  Men Who Love You Infinitely When They Are With You And Forget About You Immediately When They Are With Their Other Girlfriends.

J was a fucked up fucktard piece of work. He was afflicted by the aforementioned personality disorder, too, but it was a bit more complex. His wife cheated on him, now his ex-wife, the woman he adored until the end of time. So, his solution? You got it…right when he connected emotionally with a new woman, he found another to fuck, then, sad and guilty, tell girlfriend #1 he didn’t know what came over him & it’s only because wife #1 ruined him, and can you ever forgive him, please?  Also?  Not cool to tell your new girlfriends your wife was the love of your life.

Random other cheaters B, M, J…you get the picture.

But the best yet, the one that will take a miracle the likes of finding Jesus’ face on a potato chip for me to recover, went over like this:

The One, the one I thought was The One, the one who most definitely was not The One?

We got married, albeit hastily and for all the wrong reasons, but married nonetheless.  He moved to California to be with me, and on or around Day 3 of his settling into my our apartment, he began posting personal ad profiles everywhere. Match.com, yahoo personals, craigslist…name it, his shit-ass was on there. So I ask him about it and he tells me it’s just for fun, he messes around with his friends this way.

Let me be clear.

Not a week into a supposed life-long relationship, I am already breaking into his email, checking his cell phone history, web history, and all around not letting him out of my sight, ie, stalking my own damn husband.

The next clue was Sexy Tennis Partner. a) why the fuck does he need to play tennis with a woman? & b) what kind of fucko comes home to tell his wife his new sexy tennis partner asked him to go home with her? Many screaming fights later, the truth is revealed, not that it was a surprise, but at the very least I could stop feeling like a crazy person & know my fears were completely true. Then there were the random older women who wanted to know all about Morocco. No sex involved here, but certainly massive amounts of attention, home cooked meals, dinners out, gifts, parties in his fabulous Moroccan honor (say what?? why??). Oh, did I mention I wasn’t invited or welcome to any of this?

But pretty much the worst infidelity of all was his emotional affair, online of course, with a French woman in Boston. This is how I took my high school French to new levels of comprehension, via the hacked email translating, of course. This years-long affair consisted of hours online, chatting, phone calls all hours of the day and night. I’m pretty sure there were a couple clandestine meetings along the way, too. All under the guise she was an old family friend having a hard time adjusting to the U.S.

Of course I was at work all day, and he “worked” (read that, spent my 401k to start our business, which I also worked from the minute I got home from my real job until all hours of the morning) from home, so he had the freedom to do this, and clearly zero shame, embarrassment, or plain old respect for me.

I turned into a crazy person. Again with the breaking into email, checking phone calls, checking web history.  All this while I had 3 months of a cancer scare and then surgery to remove a tumor; while I worked a job I hated to support our business; while I allowed his younger brother to live with us no matter how much the kid drove me nuts; while I lived without a dog because the fucking Moroccan couldn’t handle an animal in the house; while I brought him into my family and pretended everything was peachy.  He spent all his time with her, gave her all his love, gave her his heart, his ear, his compassion, his secrets, all while I got disgusted looks & terrible fights. This is the most damaging and painful infidelity I’ve experienced.

So, Mom’s Old Lady Friend Who Keeps Asking Me Why I Haven’t Dated In Five Years, it’s because I cannot be trusted to find a normal man.  I am a huge idiot, apparently.  Are there classes for this?  I need some de-re-programming, Gitmo style.  I mean, without the torture.

Oh, and you read that right.  I am 37 and have been married and divorced.  Twice.  That’s super-fantastic to explain to people.