Not O.K. Cupid, Not O.K.

I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth. My family had no money, which they liked to remind us kids of as often as possible. But it wasn’t just a lack of money, it was an utter lack of indulgence that wedged that spoon in my mouth. To say it was an adult-centric household would be an understatement. I have no recollection of anyone asking me about homework but I do remember many many nights of asking my parents to quiet their fighting so I could get to sleep. There were more melodic sleep preventers as well, as my mother would practice piano (placed under my bedroom) into the late night. It was the adults’ world, and we were just visiting until aged 18 (of which we were reminded often). It’s fair to say that I was not raised with any sense of entitlement whatsoever.

Fast-forward to my middle age. I’ve worked since I was 11 but haven’t done so since 2011. I don’t live lavishly but compared to some Americans, I live well. I still am slow to “get” that my needs matter (childhood imprinting works!) but despite my childhood, I seem to have developed a sense of entitlement. I am not comfortable admitting it; but since my husband died, I’ve developed a sense of “deserving” happiness. Ick, right? I have always taken people’s unkindness personally. But, now?! Now there is this inner outrage; “do you know what I’ve been through?!!!! Do you know what I’ve survived?! Do you have any idea what it takes for me to wake up every single day and commit myself to my own happiness and being a good person?!” Lemme tell you something: this is NOT a good mindset when it comes to dating. I truly, in my heart of hearts, deep down in the core of my very being, think I deserve happiness. What does that mean?! Who the hell doesn’t deserve happiness? (Let’s not bring serial killers and politicians into this please.)

What happens when you believe you’ve suffered enough (which is what deserving of happiness really means) is that you (and by “you” of course I mean “me”) are utterly shattered when a partner or potential partner is not nice. Yes I get it, everyone has their stuff. Everyone is limited. But there is no way on earth that my husband was the last decent and kind man on the planet. I’m guessing it’s not that I am attracted to Simon Legrees. I have pretty good taste in people (which is why I like very few of them.) I am highly intuitive and can spot crazy from a hundred paces. (I recently pegged a date as a pedophile…pretty sure I was right.) I think what really is at issue is that I’m wounded. Deeply and profoundly wounded and don’t really have the capacity to endure small scrapes and bumps any longer. It’s been four and a half years and I want so badly to feel as strong and as happy as I did with my husband. I want to wake up in the morning and be happy not feel as if I have to become happy.

I once considered it a mark of my recovery and strength that I was willing to try other people on (which is what dating is). I think perhaps I was kidding myself. When your life shatters in an instant. When everything you thought you knew to be true disappears…Well, I think it’s too much to ask of myself to think I can handle any more blows to my heart.


I Am Not Mrs. Norman Maine

“You have to have a funeral!” The indignation was tinged with hostility. Her words still hung in the air as (mercifully) an actual friend shut her down; “Brenda doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want.”

It was sweet, my friend putting the Barbie girlfriend of my husband’s friend (who was not invited to my home and really had no business being there only hours after my husband’s death) in her place. Great Neck Barbie (as my husband and I had called her) was one of the few fellow Jews in my home at that moment and was well-versed in our tradition of speedy burial. This isn’t to suggest that she had any business telling me what to do however. But I did hear her and her subtext (“you are a bad Jew and a bad wife”).

I have always been susceptible to people’s directives when it comes to social behavior. I was raised by non-practising Jews who adhered more to the Beat credo than the middle-classness surrounding us. In other words; I have always felt a bit clueless. I am in a constant state of observation and if someone tells me what to do, I tend to take it into consideration. But in this case…there was no way I was having a funeral just days after learning of my husband’s death. I had been to two Jewish funerals during my entire lifetime and knew and felt nothing for the tradition. I’m not sure how, and had met the man only twice, but my rabbi showed up in my bedroom the next day. He sat with our small group the day after, prayed and had us all speak. It was powerful and beautiful and all the service I needed.

I don’t know how it happened, perhaps it started as a way to get people to stop asking? But I began to plan a memorial service. I think the service occurred only six weeks after his death, but it feels like it took months to plan. I have planned events professionally many many times. Dinner for 1,000+ in an airplane hangar? No problem. Multimedia musical productions? I got that. I’ve worn headsets, carried walkie talkies and know how to run a light board. But planning my husband’s memorial was the most difficult and ridiculous thing I ever had to do. It was difficult because I was shattered and had to produce an event! Yes: produce. I had no script or even a freaking mood board. All I knew was what he didn’t want (i.e., no children, cremation, no marker). Other than that I was completely on my own…to produce an event that meant nothing to me, nothing to him and caused me heaps of anxiety. A date had to be set for those flying in. But how do you set a date when you can’t get the venue or singer to commit in a timely manner? It was so stressful and so unnecessary. My life had just imploded and I’m dealing with caterers?! The service itself was beautiful and devastating. I soldiered through greeting people at the reception. There were people who I did not like, including those who had treated me terribly during the past six weeks. My husband’s boss attended; the man who refused to retire him retroactively (even though my husband was past retirement age and that common practice would have enabled me to have a modicum of security.) My husband’s family was not there. Did they not know he had converted to Judaism years before his death? Was a trip to NYC simply out of the question? Or is it just that death is really not that much different than life? –  Those who are there when it matters are there when it matters.

The relief I felt when it was all over is indescribable. It truly felt like a second trauma. I was still so very shattered by his unexpected death and have always been a very private person. Having to produce such an event and then having to be the center of it all was excruciating. I regret succumbing to the pressure. I do. When I think of it my stomach lurches. I know it was “the right thing to do”, but so what?! I put myself through such agony for other people. It was utterly unnecessary. That small “service” my rabbi conducted in my living room was all I needed. The beautiful obituary I wrote with his and my closest friends was more than enough of a tribute. I did it because I thought I had to. I thought I owed it to his employees, colleagues and former students. The truth is that not only didn’t I owe anyone anything, but the responsibility really was his. If he had wanted it to happen he would have planned it. I know this now. I know that I am not his living memorial, his Mrs. Norman Maine. But during those first few months I was still holding on. I still wanted to be his wife. I know that now.



I Dreamed A Dream

I still dream of him and it is always, without exception, deeply troubling. In the morning I feel mildly ill and exhausted. I mean; “take to my bed” exhausted, if I were ever to take to my bed. I never did by the way. Even in those first few days, I got up and showered every single day. I could not indulge in that kind of high drama. Had I not had a houseful of people, perhaps I would’ve considered it. But I had no desire to swoon with a rapt audience in the next room.

These dreams I have are not lush or lovely, or chick flick material. They are not snippets of our past life together. I do not get to relive our happiness through the miracle of REM. They are always, each damn one of them, about him betraying me. Often they are about him faking his death so that he could have a multi-year break from our life together. I am never happy to learn this, but am outraged on everyone’s behalf. How dare he put everyone through that! In the most recent version of this dream, I learned that everyone else was complicit. Family, friends, colleagues et al., were all just fine with it. No matter which version of this dream it is crystal clear that I will not take him back. I am never happy to see him and am adamant that he will not change this new life.

There are so many troubling aspects to this dream. First and foremost is that I’ve been having it for years and it doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. I have had it while in new relationships and while single. I have had it when things are good and when things are bad. The supporting players, set and time period change but the theme is always the same; betrayal.

I don’t want to have this dream. If I must have it can I also have a pleasant Lifetime Movie-ish one? It doesn’t have to be tit for tat. I’ll settle for a sweet dream for every two of this dark and distasteful one. It doesn’t even have to be terribly creative, just show me a clip of the past. How about that memory that steadies my heart rate and dries my tears? You know…when I’m in the hammock with our dog, swinging gently and looking up at the leaves. On cue, Jacques jumps up from between my legs as he hears “daddy’s” car slow to turn into the driveway. Husband walks through the house to the sliding glass doors and comes out to join us. Once upon a time that was my life.

I Don’t Like Her, You Can Have Her

At least once a day I am utterly gobsmacked. I have never made so many Scooby Do sounds as I have in the past 4 1/2 years. I have no idea if the world has changed while I wasn’t watching or I’ve simply had my head someplace it didn’t belong for 20 years. I’ll admit that while married my life was about my marriage. Yes, I worked and had scads of friends, but most of my “observing” was done in the context of my marriage (i.e., why does your family act that way?!) Now I’m exposed to many more new people and behaviors…daily. Of course, the world has changed since the mid 90s as well. It’s not just me.

The last time I was single people met in real life and ghosting hadn’t been invented. If you wanted to view porn you had to make an effort (or at least get off the toilet) to do so. The backlash to feminism hadn’t occurred yet and women weren’t being sold girdles, false eyelashes and hair extensions and encouraged to use upspeak. Now take those ingredients and slowly stir in my own naiveté and cue the Scooby Do head tilt.

There are several specific boorish behaviors that send me ’round the bend. But the one that really flummoxes this feminist is a bit of a weighty issue. When did it become okay to mention a woman’s size and/or shame her for it? I have been on dates and even (gulp) in relationships with men who talk about overweight women with derision. Recently a date actually showed me a profile pic he had saved (and sent to friends) of a curvy woman. She was standing in front of a baby elephant and I suppose therein was the joke? She looked warm and lovely and perhaps was a size 14. Not that it would make any difference what size she was, it would never have been okay to save a photo and use it as a joke. But what was doubly icky is that she was utterly normal. I have been told by countless dates that women post photos of themselves that are “misleading”. Cue the Scooby Do head tilt; “misleading?”, I ask. Apparently there are people who post photos of their thinner (and younger) selves. Hmm, I wonder why? Could it be that you men (with your lack of head hair, abundance of ear hair, middle aged gut and better virility through chemistry) are a tad superficial? Could it be that you’ve watched too much porn or perhaps haven’t noticed that even R-rated actresses have body doubles? Is it that you feel that perfection is a reasonable and safe substitute for real connection?

I don’t know and I’m not even sure that I care. It’s just one more red flag as far as I’m concerned. I’m not entirely clueless, I know that obesity is a real and relatively new problem. All one needs to do is watch a television show from the 70s to see that was once considered “fat” wouldn’t even be noticed today. We are now big, very very big. But that isn’t what this little diatribe is about. What frosts my bum is that what I’ve been experiencing is a fat shaming that is utterly repulsive. I’m a relatively small person and perhaps that’s why men talk about this stuff to me. But you see the thing is, I’ve always found it easier to be outraged on others’ behalf. So now this will have to be added to my teachable moment list. It’ll take pride of place right after; “No, I will not discuss my husband’s death with you…on a first date!” and “Sexual harassment has nothing to do with a woman’s appearance!” Fun date, eh? It pleases me none to have to do it, I assure you. I honest to goodness assumed that men (particularly of a certain age) were evolved, respectful and aware. I never ever expected to travel through my 50s with a constant Scooby Do crick in my neck.

False Victory

What a sense of victory it was; all those firsts! Each time I survived a holiday or milestone I did so with shock and awe. When I made it to the first year anniversary of his death I felt as if I was crossing a finish line. I did it! And I did, gritting my teeth and with white knuckles. Each and every little thing that I had to do by myself for the first time, shook me to the core while filling me with pride. I did it! I made it through the birthdays, anniversaries, lawyer’s appointments, financial decisions, travel, health issues, and holidays completely on my own. Twelve months of firsts and I made it.

Over four years later it occurs to me that those firsts may have been the easy part. The adrenaline of “I can do this!” mixed with my shock and numbness helped ease the way. Now it’s no longer about “getting through” anything, it’s about the stunning and cruel fact that this is my life. Doing it all on my own; the financial decisions, the legal affairs, my health and happiness, all of it, are my one-woman show. It shouldn’t really be so startling to me. I didn’t marry until I was a ripe old age of 32. I had lived on my own for a decade, coming home to an empty house and being my own counsel. If anything it should be easier now. I was stupider then (isn’t everyone?) and had zero professional or financial safety net. I certainly did not have the confidence acquired sometime in my 40s. So you would think that now; devoid of the unflattering perm and having a modicum of security I would find it if not easier than at least comparable. Alas, no.

If you’re a math person you’ll have no doubt noticed a bit of a mathematical formula in the paragraph above. Call it the Happiness Formula if you will:

Youth – knowledge – confidence – resources = 20s Happiness

Experience + confidence + resources + knowledge – perm = 50s Happiness

But there’s a factor missing, one that can’t really be quantified: my broken heart and spirit. I may be stronger on paper but I’m less than whole in reality. I am wounded. It’s that simple. Yes, I am capable of love and happiness, but I am fundamentally bruised and changed. Each difficult task or setback feels bigger and darker now. It’s embarrassing to admit, but there are times I feel I’m owed a break and even happiness after what I’ve been through. I feel that every time the world is not nice to me that it’s personal. I feel resentful that on top of everything else, I still need to fight with the co-op board about my cable bill. I know it’s utterly absurd and unpleasantly self-absorbed but it is how I feel.

I’m disheartened to realize that I did not in fact cross any kind of finish line. That victorious feeling of surviving the first year was a false victory. There is no benchmark, there is no end point. I am not owed a happy ending or even kindness. There is no epiphany waiting around the next corner. For each day I wake up and think; I’m okay, I like my life, there will be an evening that I cry myself to sleep. This is my life now.