I had a date with a guy who looked as if he’d be perfect for me. He was of a similar age, fairly educated and associated with the arts here in town – he didn’t own a hog or have photos with several dead fish on his dating profile. As someone cursed with an overactive imagination, I envisioned the home I’d create with someone open minded, interesting, and respectful.
Nope. It was a painful, eye-opening two hours. On the good side: I got a free lunch. Not so good: I’d once again fallen for a fantasy that didn’t exist.
Trying to find “Home” in all the Wrong Places
Now, I’ve learned that when a man suggests his favourite lunch spot for a first date, without asking about mine, it means he either doesn’t care about me or he’s thoughtless. When said lunch spot is a rather dirty, divvy place, serving a buffet daily…well, it used to be humiliating but instead I now feel nothing but ennui. I considered standing him up to be dramatic but curiousity got the best of me.
He had a total lack of curiousity about me, though. He talked of himself non-stop, without seeming to draw a breath, as Jane Austen would say. After interjecting a few times and getting only a brief, blank stare, I gave up trying to have a conversation with this guy. I went into observer mode and ended up enjoying the meal. It’s much easier to appreciate your food when you’re not talking!
At one point, he admitted to creeping his wife – not even “ex” yet – and actually showed me her posts online. He wanted to prove to me that she was the one who was crazy, not him. Unfortunately, I know who his wife is and I went to school with her brother. This guy unwittingly gave me a new appreciation of all his wife must have suffered.
Lawyer No More!
Interestingly, this date was almost identical to the hour long coffee I had with a pre-murdering lawyer. Sorry. Pre-accused murderer. I went out with him before he allegedly killed the guy. He hasn’t been convicted yet. After all, someone could have broken into his office, conveniently murdering the friend he’d ripped off, carting the body off only to leave it in a rented van before disappearing. And maybe it was only coincidence that he’d purchased a shovel and rope days before that somehow found their way into this van… I don’t care what the law says, there will be no second date.
I’ve decided lawyers are not for me. (Also anesthesiologists. Now that guy seemed more like a murderer. All strange demeanour living alone in his austere, lifeless home complete with a stainless steel kitchen table he’d welded himself. *shudder* Think Christian Bale in American Psycho. Without the great ass.)
My friends laugh at my stories and tell me that they could never go on a dating site and are totally happy without all the turmoil.
Me, I’ll do Almost Anything for a Good Story
Seriously, though, after a bad date, I will often take a break of weeks or months. After a bad relationship, years. It does affect me and I’ve had to learn how to bring myself back into balance.
It’s the hope that does me in, really. The gradual raising of expectations that I’ll once again find a safe haven – maybe even create a home with someone. No matter how hard I try to contain my excitement at the possibilities…the let down crash is a b*tch. I always fall back down the slide and start thinking about my most momentous failure: my marriage. (This early blog is full of posts lamenting and detailing the grappling I’ve done over this: HERE and HERE)
I keep thinking there must be a lesson there that I’ve yet to learn. That I have a fatal flaw and if only I unearthed it, I could fix the issue once and for all. Repair the crack in the foundation…the hole in the roof…send the bugs in the attic packing….
Houses and History
My son shared a photo of a neighbourhood in the city from the 50s or 60s and we were trying to guess the vantage point it was taken from. So many things have changed in this small city. That got me thinking: these people that had put so much effort into their houses and properties – what happened to them? Do the houses still stand? Or were they torn down to make way for condo towers or strip malls full of ugly vape and dope shops?
Some people spend years making their houses into comfortable homes – places of sanctuary to recharge before going back to the outside world. They are built slowly, with care…each room renovated or redecorated with the owners’ particular expression of what comfort or class is to them. Objects are brought in or gifted and become happy reminders of time spent together with loved ones. Furnishings are collected, hobbies are taken up…and then boxed up and put in the basement as the kids grow up and move away.
Baby Shoes
It’s only when parents become too old to stay that all the old treasures in the basements are unearthed. Baby shoes and hand knitted outfits, fading photographs of kids running through sprinklers on green lawns in the front yard or blowing out the candles on a homemade birthday cake…silly trophies from various sports and teams…favourite stuffed animals and blankets from children long gone away.
Some of us were literally homemakers. I don’t think this is exclusively a female thing. I’ve met men who had been homemakers as well – they were the ones who cared about cooking dinner, cleaning up the place and matching socks to each other. The other spouse was far too busy on far more important work to concern themselves with trivial things like this. Lawyers attending conferences or scheming ways of ripping off clients / friends and what-not.
When the Walls Come Crumbling Down
I wonder if the more we invested of ourselves – our tastes, our time, our energy – into making a home for ourselves, spouses and families, the more devastated we are for the loss of it? Perhaps those of us who worked so hard to do this are shocked at how easily it could be discounted by the partner who had “more important” things to do. As if none of it ever mattered at all.
To me, it was like finding out the home I’d been working on so carefully all these years suddenly lost its foundation. As it began to tilt and sink into the earth, I frantically ran in and out of the house, removing anything I thought had value…
I’ve spent years running back and forth, gathering these metaphorical items because I thought they’d be “lost” otherwise.
Adding to my frustration and eventual sadness was that I was the only one who bothered to try to save anything at all. No one else cared like I did.
What Foolish People Do
I watch in more than a little envy as some people, after their house has collapsed in ruin, just walk away and begin travelling. Many of them have ended up wasting away in Margaritaville, however. Yeah. It’s your own damn fault.
Others die of a broken heart. Maybe not right away but slowly, as the bitterness eats away at them like a cancer. After all, what is bitterness but a broken heart crying for understanding?
Bewilderingly, I’ve watched as women who ate bon bons all day and didn’t give a rat’s ass about creating a home (like Peggy Bundy) or spent money entirely on themselves like a Kardashian end up with a decent (if long suffering) guy. The message is clear: it doesn’t matter what you actually do – as long as you look good doing it.
“Living well is the best revenge.”
The home I worked on lovingly for so many years of my life has been destroyed. There is nothing left of value to pick through anymore.
I have stumbled away from the wreckage, clinging only to a few precious items. I’m still working to integrate the girl I was with the wife and mother I became into the vision of who I want to be now.
And I’ve built a new home.
Here’s all I know for sure: I like the unexpected or whimsical… my home is warm with a traditional vibe. Everything is more or less in order – no cold minimalism here…There’s found or gifted objects from people I love carefully displayed…and there’s a bit of glam. Marilyn will always have a place in my world.
False Starts
I’m probably not done making false starts. What if these are just part of my journey to wholeness? What if there IS no final destination at all and this is my life? All of it – not just the home-making – but the trying so hard to prove myself to the world, the longing for a partner and connection, the hope and disappointment roller coaster I seem to love to ride, and the bold and courageous standing up for my – self.
Perhaps all this is the foundation for the new home I’m creating. What if my home is only the reflection – has always been the reflection – of who I am on the inside?
When I mourn the loss of the home I had with my longtime partner, I am not so much sad over his total disregard for it as I am at the realization that I didn’t appreciate myself. Why did I need his approval for any of it? What if the outward manifestation of the home I created was part of my attempt to feel safe and secure?
“Home” doesn’t need four walls, a roof, and a slew of interesting objects. It is a place of inner stillness and peace I can call on anytime from anywhere. Margaritaville, anyone?
Maybe – just maybe – I have been home all along.
