winesoakedramblings – the blog of Vickie van Dyke

Last week I visited my local library. I love my local library. I love that you can pop in virtually any old time and get books for free. Free! Same with movies and CDs and box-sets and even sheet music books. Awesome.

I used to dread going into Chapters to buy a book because I never knew what I wanted, I never knew where to begin to look and then what happens when you arbitrarily pick something and twenty bucks later and a few chapters in you realize it ain’t your thing?

That’s why I love the library. You can check out twenty books, read two pages of each and bring them all back if they’re not your thing. No harm, no foul.

But last week I happened into my hallowed bibliotheca and it was kid’s morning. Playtime. Something like that. Thank goodness they weren’t scrambling around the book room all uncontrolled and loud but those darling little chubby cherubs were in the “event room”. Door wide open. And with some over-zealous choirmaster at the helm they were all warbling “The wheels on the bus go round and round.” Over and over again.

I usually take my time at the library. I amble unhurriedly up and down the aisles, read back covers, first pages, reviews, just trying to get a feel for what my next three weeks will look like on the literary front. It is a joyous exploration. But not that day. That day I grabbed the first three books that looked vaguely interesting and high-tailed it outta there.

Because I … gulp … hate kid’s music. Hate hate hate. Like the Grinch hated Christmas, I hate kid’s music.

There. I said it.

Back when I was a kid (and dinosaurs roamed the earth) we didn’t have kid’s music in our house. We had a lovely hi-fi stereo that played classical music on the radio, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on Sundays and the occasional Harry Belafonte calypso record when my trendy parents had a party. We traveled in Europe a fair bit so my sister and I were dragged to concerts. Opera. Symphonies and church music. Musical theatre and movie musicals. Some of it I actually enjoyed. Some of it I tolerated. I also learned to sleep sitting up.

And then many years later came my son. And I figured I was a grownup now and I would have to succumb to the standard trappings of new motherhood. A four-door car. Little league. Soccer mom. Kid’s music.

The four-door car lasted less than a year before I traded it in for a sporty Honda Prelude, 5 speed with sunroof, thank you very much. Sam tucked into the back seat quite easily and he loved the sound of the engine. Thankfully my darling boy was never into team sports (he was more of a skate/snow-boarder dude who has now learned to appreciate golf) so I suffered fewer-than-average soccer mom adventures. And there was never any kid’s music on at our house.

Okay, that may be a stretch. When some insipid ditty snuck its way onto our television I didn’t immediately toss a tomato at the screen. I sang along with Barney and the kids, yes I did, except I usually made up my own lyrics. Like “I love you, you love me, one of us has got to pee.” Sam found my creativity (?) hilarious.

What I mean is I never bought cassettes or CDs designed especially for children. Sam was given a few, we did try them out and I’m sorry (not really) but I simply could not abide them. And I love music. The only thing I love more than music is love. Music is an integral and important part of my existence. I write music. I play music. I sing music. I need music. And I very much wanted my son to appreciate music.

To that avail we found a piano teacher willing to come to the house. And when she did I made this directive very clear: we (as in you and Sam) will not follow conservatory guidelines, you will not teach him anything he does not want to learn, I will not force him to practice and he sure as heck won’t be entering any competitions. If this ends up being nothing more than half an hour a week of music appreciation, so be it. I will not shove music down my son’s throat. And neither will you.

Luckily we found a brilliant and inspirational instructor who got it. And was more than willing to rise to the challenge of doing it my way.

Later on in his regular schooling Sam was offered the chance to learn guitar. As part of the official music curriculum. Awesome. He plucked and plinked and plunked and it was somewhat heartening but not terribly encouraging, something which was further evidenced by his complete lack of desire to practice when we procured him additional lessons. Once high school hit he more or less abandoned all musical aspirations.

That said, his life was constantly filled with music. My music and his father’s. And our tastes are quite diverse so our boy was subjected to everything from Bruce Springsteen to Carole King to Barbra Streisand to John Prine to The Rolling Stones to Buckwheat Zydeco. There was a time I listened to nothing but Phantom of the Opera and Les Mis. For weeks on end. Celtic instrumentals. German Christmas songs. Smooth Jazz and country, Frank Sinatra and Patsy Cline, Sam got it all. All the time.

And then all of a sudden one evening I was lying in bed reading and I heard some guitar noodling coming from Sam’s room downstairs. I knew that he had taken quite a shine to John Mayer and was You-Tubing, studying and actually paying attention, but on this particular evening I knew something was different. I listened more intently. And then it hit me. This wasn’t Sam playing along with John Mayer. This was Sam. Playing. Alone.

I was flabbergasted. Because for a guy who had taken very few serious lessons and shown very little serious interest, he was really, really good.

Fast forward another year and he decides that after Grade 12 he wants to attend a music college. Something for which he will have to audition.

What are you going to do at your audition? say I.

Play the guitar and sing, he replies.

Sing what? I retort, my voice dripping with incredulity. I have never ever heard the boy sing “Happy Birthday” much less a pop song.

Something I wrote, he whispers sheepishly.

Ah, you write songs now, do you? I again fire back, wondering what magic this kid thinks he’s going to pull out of his ass.

Well, he finally agrees to sing something for me. He is sitting at my kitchen bar and I turn to face the stove, not wanting him to see the sure-to-be distressed look on my face when he finally opens his mouth. And he sings. John Mayer’s “Slow Dancing In A Burning Room.” And before he even gets to the chorus I turn around and I’m jumping up and down like some deranged orangutan yelling “Holy shit you are SO good. Oh my God you are so fucking good!”

He was. He still is. Even better as a matter of fact. Because it turns out the boy could also write music. And lyrics. And not just pop-mush, standardized, easy-rhyme pulp. My boy is a poet. His lyrics, his themes, his structure, it is all a beautiful thing to behold. Mature beyond his years and experience. Just inspired.

And that brings us full circle. I would like to believe that because Sam was not raised on musical pablum and because he was raised on a veritable smorgasbord of music, it all seeped in via melodious osmosis. It was all there every day becoming a part of him every day. Whether he knew it or not. And I am the proudest mama on this planet, seeing (and hearing) who he has become as a songwriter and musician. And you don’t have to take my word for it. He released an independent EP two years ago and his first official label release (Warner Music Canada) will come out next year.

Now I don’t want you thinking I’m accepting praise for my monumental parenting skills. I didn’t not play kid’s music because I thought it would turn Sam into a superstar. I didn’t play kid’s music because I personally could not stand it. Thankfully Sam’s father was of similar mind.

Yet in hindsight I am delighted that my personal aversion to Itsy Bitsy Spider led to an entirely different musical upbringing for my child. And a surprising yet gratifying career choice for a truly gifted artist. His future is yet to unfold. And even if he changes his mind and decides to bar-tend for the rest of his life, I won’t mind. Because I have heard what he can do. What he can create. What he can share with the world.

And I’m pretty sure it didn’t come from the wheels on the bus endlessly spinning.

Connecting With Abandon

Lately I have been thinking a lot about these three words. I know it’s just a tiny, innocuous phrase but it has somehow popped into my head and it’s not leaving. Not only is it not leaving, it is making itself quite at home with no obvious plans for departure any time soon. So I decided I’d best make some room in my brain while I figure out exactly what it means and why it is so important.

I can only remember coining a similar phrase once before, about ten years ago. Loving unabashedly. I wanted so much to not only love unabashedly but also be loved unabashedly in return. Full-on, passionate, no holds barred, in your face, damn the torpedoes LOVE! For the first time in my life it was being offered to me and I had every intention of accepting it with all the fervor I could find. I had every intention of returning it with as much unabashedness as I could locate. And I wasn’t being greedy. I wanted everyone around me to also experience this unabashed love.

And now … Phrase #2 – Connecting With Abandon. So what does it mean?

We all connect with each other every day. We connect on the surface with strangers. At the food market the cashier says blankly “How are you today?” and you answer with equal blankness “Fine, thank you, how are you?” You might actually be worried about your delinquent child, going through a divorce or struggling with a debilitating illness and you say “Fine, thank you.”

This is not connecting with abandon.

We connect with our family members, our co-workers and our friends. Each relationship possesses its own language and we typically take great pains not to mix them up. I can connect with my friend C on a raw and honest gut level because we have big history and huge trust. With my colleagues I am frothy and friendly and go no deeper than a puddle. With family members I am working on being open and honest but years of ingrained “rules” often make that difficult. With my son I am forthcoming but also parental. And with strangers I am pleasant.

God, I hate that word pleasant. Because what I really want to do is connect with abandon.

Last year I wrote a blog about fear. Our fear of each other. And as I reread those words today I thought that must be it. We are all so damn afraid of rejection or ridicule we remain pleasant. We stay safely vanilla and our barriers stay up and ready. But you know what happens when you remain pleasant? You never connect with abandon.

I think this is why many of us, as we grow older, stop making new friends. We get set in our ways, we lose that boundless energy of youth, we are happy with our established posse of pals and we just get complacent. We abandon our abandon.

Well not this chick. I have decided to smash down the protective walls and open myself up to a different kind of connecting. One that involves an open mind, an open heart and a very open soul.

And here’s what happens when you make that decision. You start deregulating your connecting. You ignore old rules and societal conventions and you listen more closely to the universe. You allow connections to form that may seem unlikely or even weird. You respond to energy as opposed to words or actions, age or appearance. You really start to listen. And then when you hear something compelling you don’t back away in fear. You march forward with curiosity and optimism.

Case #1 – Back in my thirties I confess I was a girl who loved her biweekly manicure. Golly, I had long and lovely talons, professionally attended to with no expense spared. But when my son was born I cut those suckers off and never looked back. I was content with nails au naturel and a bit of home maintenance when I could be bothered. Then this past summer I realized my nails were breaking continually and looking pretty shaggy so I decided to try a shellac manicure. And that’s where I met J. My young, sweet, lovely esthetician J.

Now I suppose I should tell you that I don’t mind getting pedicures because they allow me an hour of uninterrupted reading time. But you can’t read when someone is working on your hands and this is one of the primary reasons I gave up manicures. I am bored making small talk to someone I hardly know for a solid hour. But that didn’t happen with J. We hit it off instantly. We did not make small talk at all. For some mystic reason we went straight to a whole lot of nitty gritty, to the point that when I left she said “I’d like to come and sit at your bar with a glass of wine and really talk.”

And do she did. And she continues to do so. Sometimes she brings her two young children for parties and barbecues. And the fact of the matter is we are unlikely buddies. I am definitely old enough to be her mother. We are in two completely different life stages. And yet here we are, becoming fast friends.

Why?

Because we connected with abandon. We didn’t worry about what anybody else would think of our weirdly wonderful friendship. We are just doing it.

Case #2: I am in a hospital waiting room as my mother receives radiation treatments. I overhear a woman whom we have seen daily mention to her husband (also a patient) that she can feel the radiation even though she is not receiving it. My ears perk up and without obviously eavesdropping I eavesdrop because this is something my sweetheart the radiation biologist is working on (another blog, after he is published) and I am intrigued. But I’m also not exactly sure how to proceed. Do I trot on over there and say “Hey, I couldn’t help but overhear …”

While I am mulling this conundrum doesn’t she just get up, trot on over to me and say “Does your mother like to read? I’ve written some books and I’d like to bring her some.”

Please understand this is straight OUT OF THE BLUE! And I am dumbfounded but ecstatic. Because now we are connected.

Well guess what? My mother and I both start reading, we are both delighted by this woman’s literary talent, I find her on Facebook where we learn we have 35 mutual friends and now we are connecting. With abandon. We are two like souls, she and I and our connection was inevitable.

Oh yeah, she is old enough to be my mother.

Much like M, a fantastic old broad who I classify as my own mother’s best friend. I grew up around M and her family (her kids are my age) and yet now it is she and I who are friends. Not just people who know each other but real honest-to-goodness friends who go out for lunch and drink wine and tell secrets and discuss emotions and feelings. Another unlikely association but one that we both cherish. And it all began when one time I broke protocol and suggested we have lunch. Without my mother. Nothing against my mom but I had a feeling M needed a good chat. And that we had.

When I look back over the past twenty years of my life I recognize that I have consciously devoted much energy to connecting with abandon. Sometimes I even connect other people with abandon and sometimes those other people connect so well our own connection is abandoned. And I absolutely do not mind. Because I know that I still have many more connections to make. This world is full of opportunities for glorious, unexpected, divine connection.

My mother is a very fine writer and in spite of their often, um, personal nature I always want her to read my blogs. And so she (usually) does. So does my sister (on occasion). And they both say the exact same thing. “You’re a good writer, Vickie, but you share way too much. Don’t you think some parts of your life are better left unpublicized?”

No. No I do not.

I just looked up the opposite of abandon and it is restraint. And no, I do not want to connect with restraint. My life is rich and textured and overflowing with a colourful spectrum of crazy characters, all of whom I love and am grateful for. And I can assure you this did not arise out of restraint.

It is because I have learned to connect … with abandon.

I hope you will too.

That would be me. Idiot person. In the flesh.

Now I know that all the self-help pundits insist that we love ourselves unconditionally. Loudly. Daily. We’re not allowed to self-deprecate. There can be no doubt at our own personal marvelousness. We must look in the mirror on a regular basis and remind ourselves how frigging awesome we are. We must take overt pride in our unique fabulosity. Self-love is not vainglorious big-headedness. It is a necessary part self-discovery, self-appreciation and self-acceptance.

Well okay, I get that and usually I think I’m all that and a bag of chips. I have no clue what that means but what I mean is I do spend a lot of time pondering my belly button and have therefore circled the block many times on my own personal road to self-whatever. I’m as swell as I need to be.

Except for today. Today I am an idiot. Big and fat.

Allow me to share why.

A couple of weekends ago my sweetheart and I were invited to quite a lavish soiree. So I did myself up as best as these old bones will allow. New dress, hot pink heels, fluffy hair, a whole bunch of bling and I’ll tell you I was made up to the nines. Totally ready to BRING IT.

My only concern was the new dress. A little one shoulder number but black and somewhat drapey and I was wondering if said frock required a bra. So I said to my sweetheart whilst curling my hair “YOU my darling will have to be the judge.”

“Not a problem,” responds he, ever the pragmatist. My guy is very much task-oriented and I’m sure he was confident in his abilities to assess my naked boobs under wraps.

I sent him downstairs to await my entrance (if I’m going to the effort to get glammed up I can assure you there will be an entrance!) and put myself together diligently. I was ready.

Down the steps I strutted, pink shoes clicking, pink purse in hand, around the corner, into the kitchen (where he was sitting on a bar stool) and ta-da … there I was in all my glory!

He looked up. Gave me the once over. And then in a confident voice that could only belong to a scientist familiar with absolute discovery stated “No. You’re good. You don’t need a bra.”

I stared back. Incredulity flooding my countenance. “Is that it?” I beseeched. “Is that all you have to say?”

Now he was totally flummoxed. “That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? About the necessity or lack thereof of a bra for this ensemble?” He truly was baffled.

“Well yes,” I retorted with more than just a hint of annoyance colouring my tone “but I was also kinda hoping for a Wow you look smashing! Or Damn honey you are beautiful!”

I’m sure you get the picture. And I won’t sugarcoat it cause I was a little (lot) pissed. But off to the party we went.

When we arrived at out hosts’ home our hostess (no stranger herself to glamming it up good) took one look and said “Wow! Well just look at you!”

“See!” I squawked at my beloved. “Other people say stuff! Why can’t you?”

He just raised his eyebrows and downed a few more gulps of beer.

Later in the evening I was standing at the bar awaiting a glass of Pinot Grigio when I glanced at the man next to me. He sure looked familiar. “Rob!” I whooped upon recognition. “How are you?”

Rob just glared at me blankly.

“It’s Vickie,” I cajoled, smiling. How could I be angry? It had been at least ten years since our paths last crossed.

“Vickie?” he bellowed, eyes wide like dinner plates. “Holy crap, you look good!”

Harrumph. And so there, boyfriend. So fucking there.

The next day a few photos showed up on Facebook (how did that happen?) and the compliments flowed freely. I was delighted and once again felt vindicated. Geez Louise if my Facebook friends can tell me I look good why can’t my significant other? Why is he so stingy with his damn words, especially knowing as he does that WORDS are my love language (there’s a blog about that about two years back). I love words. Need words. Crave words. Words are my jam.

Don’t be mistaken here, my guy can talk. He has no trouble with lots of words. It’s just those sweet nothings that are a little lacking. Unfortunately they are just not his jam.

Days go by and then a week and I realize I am still messed up by this lingual pickle. I am desperate for my words and feeling much like a dog denied his rightful bone.

So I ask my mother. You see, back in my very early years my parents went out a lot (we had awesome babysitters). My father had founded a university department and there were countless dinners, cocktail parties, receptions and even balls to be attended. My mother had a glorious closet filled with silky, satiny frocks. So I ask her “Back in those days, when you got all gussied up, did Daddy tell you that you were beautiful? That you looked great? Anything like that?”

And without skipping a beat she replies “No. I don’t think so.”

“Didn’t that bother you,” I challenge.

“No, not at all,” she responds calmly. “I don’t think I ever really gave it much thought. Because your father did so many other incredibly wonderful things for me, and sweet things, and surprising things, I didn’t worry about being flattered. In comparison being flattered was pretty inconsequential.”

BAM!

And just like that your feckless winesoaked blogger is BUSTED.

Because the truth is MY guy also does a million incredibly wonderful things for me, and sweet things, and surprising things and probably most important – daily things.

Like he walks the dog (used to be mine, now he’s ours) every night before bedtime. This is a luxury Shiloh never enjoyed when it was just the two of us. He got his big exercise in the morning and in the evening, well, his constitutional was attended to in the back yard. Speaking of which, that same back yard (not literally but you get my drift) is also now attended to by my man. He digs pits, he fills them, he repeats and repeats. And never complains. Oh and Shiloh gets extra walks or Frisbee time or even a dip in the river on weekend afternoons simply because my beau likes taking him. Allowing me (ungrateful shrew) to read and nap to my heart’s content.

He also does wine runs whenever required. You can only imagine …

He washes my car. He fills it with gas if I’m running late. He is almost always the designated driver. When I do gigs he lugs all the gear out of the basement, up the stairs, loads the car, unloads at the venue and sets it all up. With nary a complaint. And then when I’m done he tears it all down, packs it up and drives me home.

And here’s the best one: every night before bed he asks me what I need. Thumping? Don’t get too excited here, it’s a massage machine for my always problematic back and shoulders. Or maybe a real massage? Or a foot rub? He is willing to do this every single night. Yeah, that’s what I said – every single night. And he never asks for anything in return.

And now I can hear you muttering Holy crap is she ever an idiot.

Yep. That’s me. Feeling all sorry for myself cause he didn’t tell me I was bootiful.

Don’t ya just love life epiphanies?

And more importantly don’t ya just love when your mommy is super smart?

Yep. Me too.

Please don’t worry. I’ve gotten over myself. Thank God.

And the next time I play dress-up I’ll leave the words to the madding crowd. I will accept the ones that come my way with gratitude and (I hope) grace. And I’ll enjoy the company of my sometimes silent partner with equanimity.

Because now I know better (thanks, mama).

Besides, when I get home I’m getting thumped.  🙂

For a very short time, this body is your home. Decorate it as you please. Or not. It’s your house. But don’t come to mine and be like “Ugh, I hate what you’ve done to the place.”

I just read this quote on Facebook (where else?) attributed to someone (or thing) called “plaidtheimpala” (no clue) and man oh man did it ever hit home. Because when you really tell yourself the truth, how hard is it to not judge someone by the way they dress? By how many piercings they have and where they might be? By tattoos or purple hair or even wearing fur?

We all do it (yes, YOU do too and you know it!) but really, what right do we have? Certainly ethical concerns (fur, for example) may warrant attention but when was the last time you figured someone out (or so you thought) simply because of their look?

None of us is innocent. Yes, even I am guilty. For instance, I know lots of woman in my age group who are at last succumbing to the lure of a tattoo. Maybe even more than one. And I cannot personally understand the appeal of permanent marker on my body. But I am learning to support and applaud their right to decorate in that fashion.

I see beautiful young girls with rings in their noses. And sorry, this probably really shows my age but when I see that all I think about is cows. Again, I cannot personally see the enhancement factor there but hey, your nose, (or belly button or eyebrow or tongue), your right.

We all see weirdly colored hair, weirdly cut hair, weirdly made-up faces and weirdly attired individualists. But the thing is maybe it’s just weird to us? Or maybe those glorious freaks want to be weird? Whatever the reason, the chick with the pink Mohawk might be working on her PhD and the guy with the full sleeve of tattoos and pants hanging below his ass just might be a poet.

I remember back in my country music days, attending the annual convention and noticing (whilst broadcasting from the lobby of the host hotel) the female half of a popular guy/girl duo. Notice is perhaps too mild a word because the woman was causing quite a stir. Why? Because she was wearing extra-mini, cut-off denim shorts, cowboy boots and a flouncy blouse unbuttoned down to there. And this woman was 45 if she was a day! What the heck is she thinking, thought I, securely hidden behind my broadcast desk, blanketed in the comfort of my much younger age (I was maybe 35) and full-length pants. She is way too old to dress like that!

The trouble with my theory was that she looked fantastic. Don’t take my word for it. Ask the dozen or so guys who were wiping drool off their chins. She rocked those short shorts with more bravado than Jane Fonda in leg warmers.

Fast forward to me, now approaching my dotage, and what will you still find me in all summer long? Cut-off blue jeans. And not cut off mid calf or even at the knee. Short shorts. Frayed artfully, I might add. And I will confess to being a fair bit older than 45. But this is my happy summer uniform. Shorts, a colourful top and flip-flops. In all honesty if I could wear this ensemble year round I’d be ecstatic.

So now I wonder, do people look at me in the fresh fruit aisle and say What the heck is she thinking? That broad’s way too old to wear those shorts? And then I banish that thought entirely and continue shopping because I don’t care. It’s my happy uniform, remember? Mine. They can judge me all they want but it won’t change a damn thing.

I think even my mother has finally figured this one out. Seeing me constantly in my cut-off shorts is probably not her favourite thing. Me in my cut-off shorts taking her to radiation treatments at the local cancer clinic is also perhaps not what she would wish. But does she say anything? No, not anymore. Because like the rest of us I believe she is still learning. And she has learned that I am there, being a good daughter and a good human being. What I’m wearing is pretty irrelevant.

Kind of like my bikini. I will admit in the interest of full disclosure that, apart from when I was pregnant, I am now the heaviest I have ever been. Blame menopause, advancing age or my love of wine and chocolate, but there you have it. And yet for the past two years I have been rocking a bikini. In public. Like, you know, with other people watching and everything. This is a sport I have not tackled in over 30 years (even when I was thin) and yet here I am gleefully prancing around pools and beaches baring my (way bigger than it used to be) belly. And I love it. I am finally comfortable in my skin and therefore have no trouble sharing a bit more of it with the world. I’m especially fond of the tanned skin on my stomach.

The other thing is makeup. There was a time not too long ago that I would never have dreamed of leaving the house without it. Now I go bare-faced all the time. I like my face without makeup. Also I’m lazy. So I smile and engage and hope that whatever beauty I may posses shines out through my eyes as opposed to adhering to some cosmetic company’s idea of how I should look.

My pal C tells me that I am her inspiration. I have ten years on her and at least ten lbs. Yet she decided this summer to rock those cut-offs too. This makes me very, very happy. Not that she’s wearing shorts but that she is comfortable in them … in her own skin. She still won’t leave the house without mascara but we’re working on that.

I would hate to think that I am defined by how I look. I’m sure we all are to some extent but the beauty of aging with gratitude is (as opposed to that growing old sucks philosophy) is that you appreciate everything more intensely. And with that appreciation comes a live and let live attitude combined with an I am who I am mindset. Not to mention that skin/comfort thing. And if I am going to be defined by how I look then I want to look like me. The real me.

I am the girls in the cut-offs and bikini. Sometimes even at the same time. This is how I choose to decorate my house and my house is a very happy place. Please feel free to decorate yours with the same abandon.

Every now and again, my Facebook feed magically shows up with a quote I need to read. Right time, right place, right words. And isn’t it weird that we might have read those same words many times before but on this particular day they just jump off the screen and resonate? And don’t you think that if those lovely words are going to go to the trouble of finally jumping and resonating you should maybe also go to the trouble of taking a second look and figuring out why?

Yeah. Me too.

Today it’s Toni Morrison. Author. Theorist. Woman with lots of really good words. These are my favourite –
“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

Hmmm. Ya think?

And yeah I’m feeling pretty plump these days and that plumpness is highly unpleasant. Kinda like when your favourite jeans no longer zip up or that dress you’re dying to wear can’t even be saved by Spanx.

So now I start thinking – what exactly is it that is weighing me down? What exactly is preventing full flight? Why am I constantly feeling the pull and drag of the shit that weighs me down? Where the heck are my wings?

And the answer comes in a whoosh of realization. My past is weighing me down. My guilt. My desire for forgiveness, love and harmony. I am weighed down wishing for forgiveness and acceptance from people who are feeling neither loving nor harmonious. I keep trying and asking and begging and trying some more and then that weight just multiplies to the point that I can hardly crawl, much less fly. But I don’t give up. Round and round I go, boulder firmly affixed to my spine, thinking one day my endless, optimistic, boundless love will prevail.

But it never does. It is never enough to create the outcome I so long to create. It’s not even enough to foster some small modicum of forgiveness.

So I start contemplating what Toni wrote and I think okay, enough is enough. I’m tired of feeling fat. Let’s first address this forgiveness issue. Yes, think I, the human kind would be nice but I reckon I’ll have bigger fish to fry one day so maybe I should abandon that desire altogether? I’ll just forgive myself, thank you very much, and keep walking. Good start because at least I’m not crawling anymore.

I decide this is a very good start to my diet. So what’s next? I know it’s gonna be big, as in way bigger than giving up chocolate, but I also know it is one that I need to embrace. Because I want to fly.

So what does this new diet involve?

A big fat life-altering, Vickie-defining, heart-wrenching yet realistic decision. I am officially giving up on ever being loving friends with my ex-husband.

There. It’s official.

I know I have said in the past that B and I were the poster couple for amicable divorce and perhaps twelve years ago we were, mostly because I gave him everything he wanted and asked for very little in return, realizing even then that more than financial freedom I wanted the opportunity to forge a new kind of love without him but also with him. Honest. Authentic. Starting from a place of full disclosure and blossoming into whatever we could imagine and most importantly always rooted in love of family and each other.

Because even though I could no longer live with him in love I never stopped loving him, even for a moment. So my new dream was always inclusive of our new partners. But now I see that after more than twelve years (one new partner for him, a few more for me) not only can he not do it, it would appear he really doesn’t want to, never wanted to, will never want to, and that is just that. It would also appear that now that our son is 23 we can’t even have a loving conversation about him anymore. The last time I tried all I got was a constant stream of “I dunno.” And when I pushed harder I got “You’re drinking wine right? You’re always too emotional when you drink wine.”

I’m not going to argue that point. I will however stipulate that his assertion suggests that he still knows me. And I can assure you he does not. Because as another eloquent Facebook quote (author unknown) pointed out “You don’t know this new me. I put back the pieces differently.” And that is the absolute biggest truth B will never understand. Vickie today isn’t even close to Vickie-when-we-were-married.

It just seems the longer we are apart the angrier he is at me. Or maybe I am overestimating my importance and perhaps dear B just doesn’t give a shit. I hate to admit I am that unimportant but I fear it may well be the bitter truth. Mother of his only child or not, he is busy with his new life and I am now old news. Kind of like the woman who calls her ex “sperm donor”. Except I guess I was “womb lender”.

So as of today, my diet involves no more worrying about my (non) relationship with B. I will no longer invite him to family functions. I will no longer pretend civility when we meet up at “events”. That’s not to say I’ll be rude. I am just done pretending we give a shit. If my family asks me if he and his partner can be included in our family occasions I will say no thanks. His presence ruined both my niece and nephew’s wedding for me. Magnanimous as I was trying to be, he and his new cha-cha partner were having a high old time dancing while I was weeping in my mother’s hotel room. I don’t have any more nieces and nephews so I don’t think weddings will be an issue (until our son gets married and can we just save that one for another blog?) but there will be no more invitations period. I’m done.

I know this sounds like a No More Mrs. Nice Guy thing and I hate that. Because I think I am a nice guy. But I have to let this shit go. It’s a battle I cannot win and one that is exhausting me. I can’t be exhausted if I want to fly. And yes, I want to fly more than I want to hang on to unachievable dreams. Especially dreams involving a man who never bothered to understand me when we were married, so why would I expect more when we are not? My pieces have been painstakingly (emphasis on pain) put back together differently. I’m not sure about his. But whether it’s because he’s angry, busy or just disinterested, I have spent way too many hours on a person who has very few minutes for me.

So I will let old baggage go. Bye-bye guilt and bye-bye longing. Bye-bye victims, martyrs, saints and sinners. Bye-bye hair shirt. Bye-bye dead and immovable weight.

This for me is an extremely difficult parting because it goes against my firm belief that love can always win in the end. And maybe it can? But maybe at this time my love for me has to be stronger than my love for … love.

I feel lighter already. And I may not be quite ready to fly, but I’m on my way to the airport …

I’ve been feeling out of sorts today. Listless. Cranky. Unsettled. At first I thought it was this late summer weather. You know, heavy. Thick with moisture and regret. Sticky and uncomfortable. But no, the weather it is not. After a full day of full-on malaise I have rooted out the source of my discontent and I know exactly where to place the blame…

Elizabeth Gilbert. My friend.

Okay, that’s not true. She’s not my friend at all (although she did once respond to a post I offered on Facebook, which I thought was lovely). But she has been a big part of my life. In some ways a life-altering part of my life. Because yes, like 10 million other people I read “Eat, Pray, Love”. I romped through Rome with Liz, gobbled pizza, gained weight and practiced her “word” attraversiamo (which means “let’s cross over”) until I could almost say it like an Italian. I studied yoga, meditation and learned to calm my inner voice(s). And I still dream of Bali and ocean breezes and romantic, unexpected foreign love (my beau is British so I’m almost there). I’m also one of the seven people who bought and actually enjoyed her follow-up “Committed”. Liz’s path was so eerily similar to my own I thought perhaps she had been snooping. Not the worldwide adventure path, but the path away from an unsatisfactory marriage to a truer, more authentic life.

I was delighted to then find her on Facebook, and there she was enthusiastically interacting with fans and making us all feel like friends. Yes, I was never foolish enough to think it was just me. I just figured she was the coolest chick ever and secretly wished we could one day wine and dine with our men, toasting our mutually successful journey to new and happy lives.

And then she announced that she and Jose (the swoon-worthy Felipe in her books) were divorcing.

Whaaat?

Excuse me Liz, but no, that is not allowed. You gave me a fucking happy ending and now you are NOT ALLOWED to take it away.

Shit.

That was several months ago and yeah, I got over it. She handled her announcement with such grace and honesty, how could I be mad for long? That’s our Liz, always raising the bar for pure enlightenment until the rest of us mere mortals become midgets.

Hard to believe as this may be I got on with my life and hardly gave LG another thought.

Then there was this morning. This morning I learned that Liz’s marriage bit the bullet because she realized, in the wake of a tragic medical diagnosis (her friend’s, not hers), that she not only loved her BFF but she was in love with her. And she couldn’t bear another moment of not standing up to the world in that truth, knowing that the time left to live this love was minuscule in measurement. She was going to be brave and real and celebrate this love to the word! Her Facebook post was once again eloquent and heart-wrenching. Honest and heartfelt.

And that’s where I got messed up. Because quite honestly I don’t care if Liz (or anyone else) loves women, men or donkeys. As long as they love her back, I truly don’t care. But I took it personally anyway because I take Liz personally. The way we all take celebrities or sports star or politicians personally. They live in our faces and we feel that we know them so whatever they do, we take personally. I don’t care that dear Liz loves her friend and is now apparently a lesbian. I care that she no longer loves Jose in that happily-ever-after fairy tale that was her book. The book that changed my life and set me on a new path along with 10 or so million other women, special chicks that we are. This turn of events is one I took personally … all day long.

Until it hit me. Before I even had one single glass of wine, hard to believe I know, but it hit me. Elizabeth Gilbert did not do this TO ME. Whatever choices she has made she did it FOR HER. Her life, her love, her heart, her choice.

Seriously, who the heck was I to think I should get involved?

And then the other thing hit me. The thing about my own life and the dissolution of my own marriage over twelve years ago. And the memories flood back like it was last week and I’ll tell you I’ve spent twelve years putting those suckers to bed and their intrusion today wasn’t exactly welcome. But then again maybe it was. Because when I left my husband twelve years ago because I fell in love with another man I didn’t do it TO ANYONE. I remember my girlfriend H calling up two days later and the first words out of her mouth were “What the fuck are you doing?”. I’ve known H my whole life and that’s all I got. So I hung up on her and waited. Half an hour later she called back and said “I’m sorry”. And I replied “H, I have walked you over a thousand coals and never once judged you. Why are you now judging me?” And she answered that she just couldn’t believe it. She thought hubby and I had the best deal going. She loved coming to visit us in best-deal-land. How could I walk away from perfect? How could I do this … and the unspoken words here were TO HER?

Well honey, it looked perfect. But it was not.

Other friends chimed in in much the same way. How could you? You’re crazy. It’s a mid-life crisis. Blah blah blah …

And then one by one they ditched me. Not H bless her loyal and loving heart but many of the others just plain ditched me. Because I had upset the grand order of our (their) lives and ventured out onto a frightening and uncharted path, one which did not suit their happily-ever-after plans for us all. I did so because because I HAD TO. FOR ME. To live a lie in a “perfect” life was no longer an option. Twelve plus years later and I would choose my imperfect life over and over again because it is a life I dwell in authentically every moment of every day. And I would say to all those friends who ultimately abandoned (my) ship – I’m sorry you don’t get it. That is the only thing I’m sorry for. That you don’t get it.

My darling ex-husband is a lovely man. Probably much like Jose/Felipe is no doubt a lovely man. Even in real life. But I didn’t do what I did to B. I did what I did because I had to move forward and I could not do that with him. Mine was a journey that he would never understand, lovely as he is. And so I left FOR ME.

Obviously I have no clue what the current status of dear Liz’s relationship with her ex is. Knowing her (but I really don’t) it is loving and kind. But you never really do know how a broken heart will react, do you?

Here’s the thing. As the sun goes down on my weirdly restless day my realization is this: Liz Gilbert has done nothing TO ME. She has soldiered on fearlessly in a life that is her own and if she owes me anything (and I’m pretty sure she does not) it is simply an honest accounting of that life. And that she has provided time and time again with her genuine voice and poet’s magic. She has reminded me time and time again that her life and her choices are not mine. Mine are not hers … or yours. They are mine. And hers are hers.

And as the saying goes, until you walk a mile in my shoes …

Dearest non-friend friend Liz, I am thankfully now awake and aware. You’ve done it again, damn you (I utter gratefully). I wish you and Rayya unexpected miracles and eternal love. I wish the same for Jose (have him call me, I have a lot of awesome Canadian girlfriends).

Actually, come to think about it (because you dear Liz always make me think) – I wish the same for us all.

When Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin announced that they were “consciously uncoupling” you probably snickered, right? I mean we’re talking a Hollywood actress and a rock star here. Of course they’re going to do things differently, somewhere up in the clouds, floating around in the ether like the namby pamby souls they are. Wouldn’t want to just say we’re splitting up, nosiree. Don’t even go near that “D” word. Conscious uncoupling, my ass. Yeah, that’s what I thought.

But you know, they didn’t actually make up that term. It comes from a psychotherapist named Katherine Woodward Thomas who realized with the dissolution of her own marriage that it would be an absolute marvel to end a union in a way that was “warm, respectful and inclusive, to go out of (your) way to create a sense of family.” In other words, the couple may no longer be a couple but the family is still a family.

Yeah, I know. How often does that ever happen? Most of the uncoupled couples I know can barely tolerate the sound of their ex’s name, much less voice or company. Animosity, hostility, hurt, court battles, bitterness … these are the things that tend to take centre stage. And the biggest victim is of course not the two parties involved but … the family.

Cause here’s the thing. When you coupled and then made babies you became a family. Forever and always. You will forever and always be the parents and those kids will forever and always be your kids whether you’re married to each other or not. Sure I know some situations when one parent has been completely written out of the family equation and I’m not going to argue the merits here of whether that’s right or wrong. All I know is that in my situation (and in my humble opinion), B, S (our son) and I will always be a family. Even uncoupled as we are. Even coupled with others as we may be. We three are a family.

Given the fact that I left my husband for another man (which is truthfully just the end point; I left my husband because I was unhappy for a long time and then another man showed up a plugged a few holes) and given the fact that my ex-husband soon thereafter embarked on a relationship with said man’s ex-wife and given the fact that my relationship with the adulterous interloper didn’t last and hubby’s is till going strong after over 11 years … well given ALL those facts, most would say we’ve done pretty well. Right from the get-go we didn’t do battle. We cried a lot, we drank a lot (yes, even together), we talked a lot and we even hugged a lot.

But as the years have rolled by all those things have diminished. Our son is grown and making his own life so our opportunities for interaction are few and far between. We have mingled at family weddings (my family, by the way. I would never be invited to his), we have celebrated a few of our son’s birthdays together and back in the old days (up until two years ago) we even got together every single Christmas Day. As a family. We would have brunch, open gifts, take pictures and for a few brief moments actually be the family that we are. It was beautiful.

Alas, it is getting more and more difficult. Not geographically because we actually now live about 5 miles from one other. Not because I am unwilling because I am, always have been and always will be. But because it would appear that celebrating the festive season en famile is no longer high on B’s list of priorities. Now I say it would appear because I’m not really privy to his thoughts. All I know is up until last year he made some sort of effort (always at my invitation). Last year our annual Christmas Day get-together wasn’t possible because he was real busy with his other family (the one belonging to his partner but which also includes our son). Oddly enough the other family now also frequently includes my ex-lover (have I lost you yet?) who is the ex-husband of B’s current partner because that family apparently still wants to hang out together. But I … we … are never included.

Guess I’m being punished (still) for being evil. Like I said, I invite B and his love to many of my family functions. They’ve even actually come to a few. When my sister’s kids got married I said “Sure, invite them … why not?” And they came. And even last Christmas when I tried to facilitate a pre-Christmas get-together since Christmas Day was obviously not happening, they came. Even when S realized he could not. We hung out, B and I and our current partners and ate canapes and drank wine and it was nice. Weird yes, but I will say, nice.

And I say nice because family is family is fucking family. Forever. New people may be introduced, they might come and go and we shall daily be reminded of the fluidity of life and its participants but this one thing I know is not fluid – B, S and I are family.

So this past year I asked B if we could be friends. I told him I was still terribly sorry for my evils and I mentioned that if I had a do-over I might probably take it but I also reminded him that he looked pretty damn happy and let’s just accept this for exactly what it is and move on being the BEST possible human beings we can be. Not just co-parents but humans. Because in my books family is family and love is love. No strings, no definitions, no boundaries … if you truly love then love is in itself the reward. The giving of love.

But nope … we are all far too caught up in the getting of love.

However, I digress (2nd glass of wine). B told me he couldn’t be my friend. He once labeled us the “poster couple for amicable divorce” and that may well be true. We can be amicable. Civilized. Cordial. Even a teensy bit social (when it suits him). But we cannot be friends.

He asked me if I could be friends with my ex-lover, you know, the ex-husband of his current partner, yeah that guy, and I replied “Probably. I’ve never been offered the opportunity. But yeah. Probably.”

I’m not kidding. I probably could. Because I could now pick out the bits and pieces that I loved about that boy and let go of the shitty rest. And that friendship would make me happy.

It’s not up for grabs and neither it would seem is Christmas with my family. Because this year for the first time, I have not offered up ideas. Invitations. Anything. I have been waiting to see if B would feel inclined to be with his family. That little trio family (with all newcomers gratefully welcomed) that he and I created. B, V and S.

It is now the evening of December 22 and I have heard not a peep. And so I say …

Merry Christmas dear Ex (I actually sign my emails to him with an x, symbolizing both our current status and a small kiss). May your days be merry and bright. May your new family fill your heart will all the joy it can stand, this Christmas and always. May your definition of love, the one that so profoundly differs from mine, may it be enough to carry you into your twilight years and beyond.

And don’t worry if you ever change your mind. Your family will still be here. Waiting. Because we are family for life, conscious uncoupling or not. And our family, for all our mistakes and errors in judgment and perceived evils … well we’re not going anywhere.

Family is family is family. With these words I honour ours. And you.

“We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

Famous words from FDR in his inaugural address.

That was a long time ago. And when you think about it, it is kind of vague, somewhat histrionic and perhaps even redundant. Because of course we are all afraid of being afraid. That and spiders, snakes, heights, blind dates, war, shark attacks and dying. And that is just the tiny list. Everyone has their own personal list with fears as weird as chickens, bathing and wind (I just checked the weird phobia list).

We’re all afraid of something. For me it’s small places, super high heights (although I tackled that one head-on when I took up downhill skiing) and mice. What I don’t understand is why we are afraid of each other. Of mere mortals. Of human beings. I’m not talking about terrorists or rapists or nutsoid psychopaths wielding machetes. I’m talking about each other. Regular people. Even regular superstars. Who, as it turns out, can be just regular people too.

This week-end I am very much looking forward to reunion-ing (yes, I just made that word up) with a theatre group I belonged to many moons ago. I did exactly four shows (musicals) with this group, had some great times, a few not so great times, made some lovely friends, enjoyed some lovely flirtations and all in all moved on with some pretty fond memories. And now, nearly four decades later, the miracle of Facebook has brought many of us back together. This weekend we shall meet up at the old rehearsal hall and … well, no one is really sure what will happen. But we will get together.

As it turns out, some of these reunion-ers are scared. Nervous is more like it. Perhaps afraid that after all these years, wrinkles, extra pounds and gray hairs they won’t somehow measure up. Or have anything to say. Anything interesting, that is. They are excited. But also worried.

And to this I say – why? What is the worst that happen? The best that can happen is you will have a rip-snorting awesome time. In the middle is the prospect of an “okay” time, neither here nor there, just a few hours lost. At worst you are bored out of your skull and you go back to your now normal everyday life which has somehow survived and maybe even flourished all these years.

Plus there’s the knowledge (again thanks to Facebook) that most of your fellow attendees are as nervous as you. But again I must ask … why? Because the only thing that fear is sure to accomplish is … regret.

When I was in my first band (in my early 20s) we played a nice motor inn in Calgary, a motor inn which happened to be at that time populated by a gaggle of major country stars, in town to film a Christmas special. Remember the Oak Ridge Boys? I was just starting to acknowledge country music in those days and I thought the Oaks were all quite dashing. Well doesn’t one of them stroll into the lounge one evening. The lounge where I am singing. He sits alone and watches me sing. And on my break do I have the nerve to approach him? Buy him a drink? He is alone for crying out loud and I am a fellow musician!

Nope. I am absolutely paralyzed with fear. I can not budge from my hiding place at the bar. I simply cannot move. And then he leaves.

That night, back in the safety of my room, I berate myself endlessly. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cannot believe I let this opportunity go by. I vow that if he shows up again the next night, I won’t make the same mistake.

He does. With one of the other Oaks. They sit together at the back of the bar and watch me sing. And when the set is over I grab a drink and march right over to their table, bold as can be and said “Hi guys. Want some company?”

They couldn’t pull the chair out fast enough. We had a spirited, fun conversation and at the end of the night one of them (won’t tell you which) slid me the key to his room. I declined his offer but learned a huge lesson.

Fear is highly overrated.

If they had said “No thanks, we’re just chilling honey,” I would have walked away knowing I tried. No harm, no foul. My life would have gone on just fine but I think I would have felt better knowing that I tried.

Fast forward a few years and my same band is performing at the Holiday Inn in Sault St. Marie. As luck would have it April Wine is playing the same night at the arena across the road. And … staying at the Holiday Inn. Our drummer is incredulous. Ecstatic. Scared. Because he loves April Wine and what if they come in?

They do. And he freaks out. Holy crap Vic – that’s Myles Goodwin at the bar!
“Who’s that?” ask I innocently, honestly not knowing Canadian rock music very well. “The lead singer,” he sighs. “In this bar. Watching me play drums.”

“Well,” answer I calmly, ever the pragmatist, “He knows who you are. Go say hello.”
No way. Darling Rick is paralyzed with fear and cannot budge from his drum kit. So I budge for him. I waltz right up to the bar, tap that handsome rocker on the shoulder and said “Excuse me? Are you Myles Goodwin?”

“He laughs and said “Yes I am, dear. How can I help you?” And I reply “Please go talk to my drummer before he has a coronary. Because if he does, your drummer will have to play the last set.”

Well, long story short, not only did his drummer sit in on the last set (just for snicks) but the band helped us tear down our gear (while their road crew looked on, laughing and applauding) and then invited us onto their tour bus to party. After which they gave us free tickets to their Kitchener show and backstage passes to boot.

See how it goes? Fear would have lost that day. Totally.

And so now we fast waaaaay forward. My son and I are in Hollywood, scoping out his upcoming stint at the Musician’s Institute. We stay with friends for the most part but I promise him one night in a “famous Hollywood hotel”. I choose the Sunset Marquis because it has its own recording studio (my son is a musician) and doesn’t cost a thousand dollars a night.

Upon check-in we are offered two complimentary drinks in the hotel bar/restaurant which we happily avail ourselves of. The garden dining area looks lovely and so I suggest we might just eat here. Mommy is tired and wearing high heels and the prospect of hoofing it up Hollywood Blvd. isn’t exactly appealing. My son, also tired from all our schlepping, agrees.

We are seated at a sweet table on the patio’s perimeter and I immediately peruse the wine menu. Yes, I have priorities. That is until my son starts freaking out. Very quietly, very subtly – FREAKING OUT. “Mom, Mom, look who’ sitting next to us. Mom – look.  No don’t look! I mean … look!”

“Well who is it?” ask I, pretty much blind as a bat without my glasses on, which I have vainly left in our room.

“It’s Usher, Mom. Usher!”

Sure as shootin, the boy is right. Even I know who Usher is and he is sitting at the next table, laptop out, motorcycle helmet on the table, apparently in the midst of some type of business meeting with a few other groovy people.”

“Didn’t he discover Justin Bieber?” I ask confidently, trying to be hipper than I am. “Go say hello Sam. Introduce yourself. Tell him you’re Canadian just like Justin. Tell him you’re a singer-songwriter. Ask him to discover you too!”

You’re kidding, right? There was no way that was ever going to happen. My son is rooted to his chair and not sliding an inch. I offer to go for him. He almost cries, the fear of his mama embarrassing him with Usher too much for his tender heart to bear. He knows I will do it and he is having none of it. He tells me in no uncertain terms, closing the door on any further discussion – “I’ll meet Usher when I’m famous.” Well at least the kid’s got chutzpah.

We never did meet Usher. Nor did we meet Daughtry when he galloped by just after dessert.

A few months later, Sam wrote a great little pop song called “Say Hi”.  All about taking the chance, not being afraid, blowing caution to the wind and saying hi. The greatest line in that song is this: one yes and a million nos is better than zero of both.
Brilliant. And true.

Which brings me back to the reunion this week-end. And fear. There is no need to worry yourself into “a state” when an upcoming situation concerns you. Just go and do your best. That’s all any of us can do. Trust me, that’s all any of us ever does. On our best day we simply try. I can guarantee there will be no one at that reunion better than you. Because it’s not a competition. It’s just a bunch of old friends getting back together to re-live good times. Maybe sing some great old songs. Maybe if we’re really lucky turn old acquaintances into new friendships.

No need to be scared. Be grateful for the opportunity. Go ahead … say hi.

Less than you settled for.

It’s a weird one, isn’t it? You settle for less than you deserve, perhaps believing you are altruistic, or a good compromiser, or just an agreeable soul, or patient, or undemanding or just plain nice. But the fact is you do settle.

Holy crap, we are so good at making excuses for our inability to establish our own worth, aren’t we? We plug along interminably, knowing that we want more, perhaps need more, crave more and maybe it enters our mind that we deserve more. But do we stand up for ourselves and actually demand more?

Nope.

Because we are afraid that if we do we will actually lose what little we have. Our fear freezes us into accepting “not enough” or “not good enough” because we’ve somehow decided that a little bit of enough is better than nothing.

And that is exactly when we start sliding down that oh-so slippery slope. Because at the very moment that we accept not-enough as okay, the person in charge of doling out “enoughs” realizes that they’ve gotten away with it. They realize that we are weak and malleable and quite willing to adjust our goal posts to accommodate whatever it is they want (or don’t). We may have thought we had some non-negotiables and at one time we may have even tried to fight for those non-negotiables, but it turns out in the face of possible defeat we back down and we alter everything we once held sacred to avoid complete annihilation.

We settle for less than we deserve.

And in doing so, we allow that very person who is giving us less than we deserve to not only win that point but change the goal posts again. Because hey, if we settled for less this time what’s to say we won’t settle for even less next time? And the time after that?

Case in point:

Many years ago I embarked on new relationship with a man with whom I was deeply in love. We both left our spouses, certain that our love would survive the fall-out and ultimately flourish.

Didn’t happen.

There are many reasons why it didn’t happen but one of the biggest is that he was quite incapable of committing to our new life. He missed his house, his (grown) kids and his old life. He ended up leaving me and moving back home with his wife who at the time was enjoying a well-established relationship with my ex-husband. She loved this new attention (and the fact that he was away from me) but she had no intention of giving up her new amour. So she and her ex co-habited platonically while she and my ex got jiggy (at his house, yes, my former matrimonial home).

The thing is, once my lover was all cozy back home he realized that even though his wife was enjoying his presence, she was not rethinking her options. So he decided he missed me and loved me and then he decided that if my darling ex-hubby didn’t mind this new arrangement (which in my humble opinion was totally messed up!), why should I?

Huh?

Well, I’m not going to comment on my ex-hubby’s judgment. Or my lover’s. Or his wife’s. How could I when, in the throes of all-consuming love and naive hopes for a better future, I too finally agreed. I agreed to have a relationship with a man who was still living with his wife while she was sleeping with my ex-husband.

And that is exactly the second time my goal posts moved.

Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, they had moved once before. You see when he and I first acknowledged our illicit love, I absolutely did not want to have an affair. DID NOT. I was willing to leave my husband that very day, so sure was I of my feelings. But he could not. He begged for time. He pleaded for secrecy. He even devised a “one year plan”. And I acquiesced. Because I simply could not imagine my life without his love.

But leave we finally did and then, when after almost a full year of us living together he returned to the matrimonial homestead, and when a few weeks after that suggested this new arrangement, guess what? I agreed. I fucking agreed again. Because once again I simply could not imagine my life without his love.

Are you seeing that slippery slope now?

Let’s look at this in hindsight: At the onset of our romance, if we were truly in love and sure of our feelings and future, we should have fessed up and gotten on with it, right? Didn’t happen.

If we were going to abandon two marriages to begin life anew, I deserved not only his commitment but his action to that commitment, right? Didn’t get that either.

And if he was going to be in committed relationship with me and his wife was going to be in a committed relationship with my ex-husband, did I not deserve the peace of mind that would come with them not living together?

Apparently not.

And yet I allowed that unnerving situation to go on for well over a year. And during that year they slept in the same sheets, used the same towels and she even did his laundry and hung his underpants next to her own on the wash-line. He couldn’t understand why any of these acts was unsettling to me. He didn’t understand the intimacy that comes with sheets, towels and underpants, even if he and his ex didn’t use the bed at the same time. He just didn’t get why I was upset.

He also didn’t get why it troubled me that there was no deadline to this travesty. “For as long as she wants,” he said.

He didn’t get why he got it and his ex-wife got it and my ex-husband got it and I was the only one who didn’t.

He didn’t understand my dismay because my dismay had never been an issue (to him). I had moved my goalposts so many times to accommodate him and his desires he could not comprehend my eventual and inevitable epiphany that this entire situation was all wrong FOR ME.

Thank God I finally woke up. I realized that I had settled for far less than I deserved and I realized that the more I did that, the less he offered.

And yes, when I stopped settling for less than I deserve, the relationship ended. It hurt like hell because I truly loved that boy. And I am sure there were moments when I might have reconsidered everything just to have him back.

I am SO GLAD that did not happen. Because the life lesson was gargantuan.

In subsequent relationships I found myself settling again and again, especially at the beginning when we are all so desperate to make things work. The good news is I caught myself doing it early and then rectified the situation immediately. For me. I stated my non-negotiables and the goalposts stayed put.

This fortitude on my part signaled the demise of a few relationships. But I was okay with that because I had come to learn that although I understand the necessity of compromise in every relationship, there are certain goalposts that will not and should not move. Period.

I have witnessed many poor lost souls settling for less than they deserve in relationships, friendships, workplaces and marriages. And yes I do now feel it is my duty to remind them that if you settle for less than you deserve you will end up with less than you settled for. Because your number one priority is to love yourself. Value yourself. Be true to yourself. This will set the tone for every other relationship in your life.

As my erudite friend Caroline says, “When you take that step backwards and accept a reduced expectation, you do so with the hope that things will improve in time. Sorry. Most often it’s the exact opposite. Once you have demonstrated a willingness to accept less you have made it easier for someone else to put his own interests ahead of yours. The expected joint effort is diminished and becomes unbalanced, weighted in favour of the “less committed” party. Now you have a situation whereby the one making most effort (you) has much more to lose. It’s like throwing good money after bad. You try even harder (by settling for even less) to get that initial investment to pay off. The thing is, it hardly ever does.”

Ain’t that the truth?

Just remember there is a huge difference between being a demanding diva and standing up for reasonable recompense. So I ask you to define your non-negotiables. Pound those fucking goalposts into the ground. And then hold your head high with dignity and strength.

Trust me, in the end you will settle only for exactly what you deserve.

And guess what? You will get it. And feel good about it.