Category — starting over

Oh, hi there! Where have I been since Thursday? Well, I’ve been cleaning like a crazy woman. I’ve also been thinking, with a concerted effort towards not thinking like a crazy woman. Results were mixed.

A long time ago, in a land far far away, I believed in soul mates and fate and fairy tales and happily ever afters. My evidence for these theories? My very own happily ever after. The wasbund and I were meant for each other; we were meant to be together, I was fated to meet him and marry him and live happily ever after. The philosophical and the personal fit in a neat box, tied with a pretty bow. We all know how that worked out for me.

When your marriage ends you largely set your philosophical concerns aside. There are property divisions to negotiate, broken hearts to mend, and the immediate and practical concerns of such a momentous change overtake anything abstract. The mere emotional processing of the split and the circumstances that led to it were more than enough to deal with.

So now that my poor little heart has some fresh pink skin where the wounds once were, and I face the likely possibility that love lies waiting beneath the last few frosts of early spring? Those philosophical questions tumble around in my head and heart while I’m cleaning out my oven and mopping my hardwood floors.

The whole idea of soul mates comes from Greek mythology; the story of humans roaming the Earth with four legs and two heads and getting too big for their britches, inspiring Zeus to cut them in half to force them into humility. So the story goes that we spend our lives searching for our “other half”.  It is a very nice story, despite a little gore, and it certainly resonates with the human condition…

I also think maybe it’s a huge part of the problem, the idea that we are half-beings searching for wholeness and completion. It is the kind of story that the wasbund’s wife would have loved and cherished and clung to.

This girl doesn’t feel like a half. She feels pretty damn whole, thank you very much. She would love to have a man in her bed every night, she would be very happy to cook someone’s dinner while he mows the yard, she loves to love and wants very much to exercise that part of herself.  She would still have a pretty sweet life if she never had those things, though. Wistful, sure, but lost and lesser than? No.

Still, I cannot let go of the belief that love improves us; it calls us to a higher self and offers us  joy and comfort that make us greater than we were without it. Even the possibility of love has already made me lighter, softer, less likely to throw things and yell at pe0ple. Well, a little, anyway.

The idea that there is one perfect mate for each of us is one I always ascribed to. Now that it has become personally inconvenient, I wonder- is there really only one right answer to the question of mate selection? Or are there only so many different kinds of puzzle pieces, thus meaning that any number of people might fit together well enough? Or is it a mix of the two- that there are people in this world that we are supposed to love? Supposed to love and lose? Supposed to love and keep?

So what about free will? I’ve long subscribed to the theory that love (as in the verb) is a choice, that we decide to nurture or starve our relationships. Do we exercise that free will independent of fate? Is it fated that we will exercise our free will to maintain or destroy the bonds of love? Does fate merely open the door, and we walk through it or decline to do so of our own free will?

Can it really be as easy as finding someone who delights you, that you share common values with and feel a strong attraction to and deciding to make something of it? Does your success or failure result from fate or free will, or a mix of both? Can you create your happily ever after?

I guess all of this philosophical meandering comes down to one very real and concrete question: how do you know when it’s right? How do you know when to surrender and give in and allow your heart to give your logical mind a run for its money?

If it comes down to an emotional and ethereal knowing, that scares me. Because I didn’t think that there was any more certain knowing than what I once knew. But as it turns out?

I didn’t know a damn thing.

Alternately titled: In Which I Am Humbled By Simple Tasks.

There is nothing quite like being driven to the edge of sanity by some drawer organizers. Well, maybe throwing a temper tantrum while attempting to turn a mattress or, worse- turning a mattress while also attempting to replace a bed skirt.

It isn’t that I can’t do these things. I’m certainly capable. The problem is more a matter of pride. I can’t stand to do things I’m not good at. My tolerance for doing things poorly or struggling is absurdly low.  You would think the rash of things I’ve had to handle that I’m not experienced with would have cured me of this affliction. You would be wrong. So very wrong. There isn’t anything character building about dissolving into tears over a few pieces of fabric and cardboard.

Putting things together is like a special kind of torture for me. Other people look at something and have some sort of spatial reasoning that allows them to conceptualize how the pieces come together. I develop a thin film of sweat and a lump in my throat.

It starts innocently enough. I saw some pretty drawer organizers, so I brought them home. There are two pieces; the fabric organizer with two compartments, and a stiff piece of cardboard covered in fabric to form the bottom and hold the compartments in shape. All I have to do is put the bottoms in.

Famous. last. words.

The bottom is really hard to fit into the back of the fabric. When one end is good and settled, the other end pops out. Wash, rinse, repeat. Take a deep breath. Try again. Shake hands loose. Try to laugh at yourself. Make another attempt. Stop and look at it. Try opposite corners. Fail. Throw item across room. Feel foolish. Retrieve item. Try three more times with perfect restraint, succeed the third time, pick item up out of lap only to watch the bottom fall out. Burst into tears.

Over a drawer organizer. Well, maybe moreso because there are two drawer organizers. I did finally succeed. Or so I thought. When I put the drawer organizers in the drawer, the bottoms fell out. I filled them up anyway, and am currently ignoring the fact that they are collapsing. I consider that a win. I’m also considering the use of hot glue.

The bed skirt, on the other hand, spanked my ass.

I could tell you the whole story, but I think the upshot captures it perfectly- me laying between my box spring and mattress on top of a rumpled bed skirt, muttering obscenities while hot tears slip down my cheeks. The bed skirt is currently on the top shelf of my closet. I’m going to call this a retreat and not a loss; I will fight another day.

After all, it only took me a month to master a corkscrew. Hope springs eternal.