Q: What if Penny asked to reconcile today?

A: “No. It’s too late.”

—–

Okay, that’s the short answer. Here’s the medium-sized answer:

We dated. We broke up. Actually, she broke up with me. I tried my best to become a stand-up guy. To win her back. But she was drawing ever closer to someone else; a former friend (and housemate!) of mine. I was devastated.

And just as I started to turn the corner, she came back. That’s still a story I intend to tell here (but, alas, not tonight.) She asked to come back.

I asked a good and trusted friend what I should do. She told me that there was only one answer:

“Too late.”

I took Penny back anyway.

And here we are. We moved in together, moved across the country together, bought a house, got married, and even as it became clear that the marriage was broken, child number one arrived. Things were a little more bearable for a while. Then child number two arrived. The marriage was still broken. Then child number three arrived. And we started seeing a couples counselor. But it was already far, far too late. She hasn’t wanted to be in this marriage for years, and I’ve finally given up.

It’s been suggested by more than one person that at the 11th hour, as I pack my bags to go, Penny may realize that my departure is going to make her life a lot less comfortable… and that she might relent and ask me to reconsider.

I suspect she will realize that she’s losing a lot by losing me. But I don’t think she would ask me to stay / come back, even so. And if she did, well…

It’s too late.

I’m done.

Talk to Me

A friend recently sent me an e-mail and closed with the words, “I’m your huckleberry.” And I knew that I had here someone who speaks my language. Which is awesome.

Two of my Long Term Relationships were with women who had studied Russian language — one of whom I met because we were both in a Russian lit class together, the other of whom started studying Russian because I studied it (how cool is that?) — which gave us a common, secret language.

Oh sure, Russian is not a “secret” language, per se… except, how many people do you know who speak Russian? We could exchange quick questions or comments without anyone else (for the most part) being able to decipher exactly what was going on. Very handy at get-togethers or negotiations or the like. (Remember the movie Die Hard? “Schieß auf das fenster!” And yes, I studied German, too, so it was cool for me to intercept that little message before it was explained in English. It felt like I was an “insider.”) It wasn’t something we did often, really. In fact, it was rather rare. But it was there. It was a large piece of land in our common ground.

Penny does not speak Russian. For a while, I thought it was a shame that we didn’t share that kind of secret language that I’ve shared with past paramours… but it has since occurred to me that we do share a secret language. It’s the language that comes from similar cultural references — being the same age, growing up in the same part of the country, going to the same university, participating in the same extra-curriculars, and other common experiences.  It’s knowing what “Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra” means.

All lasting relationships must, by nature, be built upon some common ground. But the best of them, it seems to me, share a secret language. Stephen King explores this idea somewhat in his novel, Lisey’s Story. It’s the little phrases that contain a thousand words-worth of meaning. The little gestures that may have no significance to anyone else, but touch the heart of your beloved.

My aforementioned Long Term Relationship with Natalie began to fall apart when certain subjects became verboten. What good is sharing a secret language when you’ve agreed not to speak? Fellow blogger Jolene talks about how her husband neglected to share with her his own secret language… effectively keeping it a secret from her, instead of with her.

And part of the writing on the wall with my soon-to-be-Ex-wife came in the form of her deciding not to continue building our common, secret language. By deciding not to go to movies with me, or go to concerts, or read the same books, or continue building any new common experiences beyond the mundane. Languages are constantly refreshed, or they become irrelevant and whither. So, too, relationships.

I’ve begun connecting with new friends as a result of this blog, and I find it interesting that many of these new connections are born of sharing a language beyond the mundane. Be it the “nerdspeak” I share with a few of you, or the movie/literary references with another, or the parlance of writingdom or kickboxing or parenthood or academia with still others… and the common, secret language of profound heartbreak (and determination!) with most.

I look forward, in future romantic relationships, to allowing a new secret language to grow. Maybe it will include dance, or rock climbing, or photography, or travel. A new way of kissing, or new way to say, “Yes!” Maybe we’ll learn sign language even as we learn to read each others mood.

When I realized that I was giving up on my relationship with Penny, I thought of it in these terms: I can no longer try to hold up both ends of the conversation. It’s a metaphor, but it works. Relationships — romantic or otherwise — are a conversation. But as my conversation with Penny is playing itself out… there are still new conversations to enjoy.

Here’s to new conversations, with new friends and lovers, in languages that haven’t even been invented yet….

Despair Chest?

[Greetings from Portland, OR, where it also never rains. I am here with Penny and all three children in order to attend the oldest child's gymnastics meet later today. I didn't expect to have time to get online, but thanks to my friends having wifi and one of my children wetting the bed about an hour ago, I'm not going back to sleep. So here I am. While I'm not looking forward to telling our hosts about the bedwetting, and definitely not looking forward to the long drive home tonight, I am looking forward to a pleasant day of visiting with friends, cheering on my son, and otherwise taking time away from our daily grind.]

Saw this line on a fellow blogger’s blog (Suzanne, who is, as far as I know, happily married):

“I was never into weddings.  I can honestly say that I felt funerals were easier because they were done in a couple of hours and you didn’t have to take sides when they were over.”

She talked about the phenomenonandonandon about how many women seem to obsess over weddings as opposed to their marriage, to which I commented:

“…In our own case, I don’t think my soon-to-be-ex-wife idealized the ceremony or the reception so much, but I do believe that she had getting married as the brass ring to grab for, as opposed to being married.

“I don’t know for sure (I could ask, but she’s asleep right now), but I believe she had a hope chest while growing up. Is there anything more vile than a ‘hope chest’, that places all this emphasis upon marriage as a be-all, end-all?”

Of course, I’m not looking forward to getting divorced, but I am definitely ready to be divorced. Well, maybe it’s not so much that I want to be divorced, as I want to be out of this marriage.

But what is the divorce analog to a “hope chest” for marriage? A “hopeless chest?” A “bummer chest?”

As you can see if you start reading this blog from the beginning – which was just a few months ago! — I had long dreaded, dreaded, dreaded the notion of divorce. And now… while I’m concerned about the details (most common comment on this blog so far: “It’s too early for you to worry about [topic]….”), I now embrace divorce as an opportunity to get out of a bad situation and start creating a better life.

So for me, the “hope chest” for my divorce would have to have a happier name. How about… the “restart chest?” The “new beginnings chest?”

What do girls and young women put into their hope chests? What should I put in my “new life chest?”

I’m definitely going to need a new toaster….

Custody Questions…

As Suzanne reminded me in a recent comment on this blog, I need to keep my eye on the prize with regard to the matters at hand: job, separation, etc. One of the things that is looming particularly large for me ishow Penny and I should handle the issue of child custody.

We have three young children, all boys. The oldest is seven-and-a-half years old, with his younger brothers each spaced three years apart. They have very disparate needs, time-wise: the oldest is in second grade and is on a gymnastics team, which means practice three nights a week (and meets on occasional weekends); the second child is in half-day preschool with swimming lessons twice a week; the youngest is still in diapers but is no longer nursing, and does not have daycare.

Penny and I also have commitments of our own — an evening class for her on Tuesday evenings, and taekwondo classes for me during the week, as well.

With Penny and I running our own business and working together both in running the business and in managing the household, we were able to swing the kind of flexibility that their weird schedules have developed into. With our business soon to go by the wayside (and for those of you who have been following the story-in-progress, my most recent attempt to sell our business whole to another local company has fallen through, so I’m back to square one on that front) and our household soon to be divided, schools and schedules are likely to have to change for everybody.

The nature of who gets what kind of employment situation will obviously affect all this, as well. I have database work that I do on the side, for example, that used to be my full-time occupation. If that business were to pick up again (and for the moment, it is doing exactly that) and continue to be as flexible in terms of when I put my time in, I could conceivably be more flexible in managing these arrangements than if I landed back at a large software company and had to resume working sixty-hour weeks in exchange for more easily verifiable income. (Banks and landlords prefer that to free-lance, because it looks more predictable.) Then again, a larger, more regular paycheck makes putting the youngest into daycare and the second child into full-day pre-school a more viable option.

Penny’s eventual employment arrangement will also affect what she can accommodate in terms of time and cost. There is also going to be the issue of compatibility of our two schedules with each others. Until our respective income streams are figured out, it’s premature to establish a long-term plan for how we are going to handle splitting up who-takes-care-of-the-kids-when. But it’s not too soon to start thinking about our options.

As I mentioned previously, Penny and I both want to share custody and are agreed, at least in principle, to do so fifty-fifty. The laws and the courts of our state favor that kind of arrangement. We are both capable parents. But at their current age and with our shifting household and employment arrangements, what would be best for the kids?

In reading a number of my fellow bloggers’ blogs as well as comments here, I see a lot of arrangements fall into place by default — one parent or the other doesn’t really want an active role in child rearing, for example, or job constraints force the issue. I also see a lot of arrangements being highly contentious (which saddens me and worries me for them, but also makes me determined to do what I can to avoid that with Penny, if at all possible.) Penny and I both want to be actively involved in raising our kids, and we each want the other to be actively involved, as well. Since the canvas is still blank, I’d want to start thinking now: all things being equal, which arrangements would be best for all involved?

Alternate each week?

Mondays-Tuesdays in one house, Wednesdays-Thursdays in the other, and alternating weekends?

Alternate each month?

School nights with one, and weekends and summers with the other, alternating major holidays?

Alternate each year?

Mornings with one and evenings with the other?

Alternate each hour?

Okay, those last two aren’t serious, but I’ve known families that have used each of the other arrangements. (The alternating years was for a couple who knew they were going to live in different states, and the arrangement only lasted for three or four years, by which time the mother finally gave in to her alcoholism and gave up custody entirely.)

At the outset, our plan is to have apartments nearby each other, to make transitions easier.

What do you think, dear reader? What has been your experience? I know that the childrens’ needs (and the parents’, for all that!) will change over time, and so any arrangement we devise will likely be changed over time, as well. But still… what have you seen (or tried yourself) that has worked? What have been the drawbacks? What do you recommend or recommend against?

Time to start brainstorming….

And thanks, as always, for your thoughts!

Good in a Crisis

I came to the keyboard tonight to write about [something I'll write about tomorrow, I suppose], but instead found myself taken aback by a few key phrases in a couple of comments that were just recently posted to my site. One such phrase came from Le Bonheur, responding to my post “Attitude: The Airplane Story“:

“…I really value the ability to keep calm in stressful circumstances…”

You know how we sometimes play phrases over and over in our heads as part of our conception of who we are? One phrase that pops up in my head from time to time is:

“I’m pretty good in a crisis.”

And while Le Bonheur’s comment wasn’t about crises in particular, it immediately brought to mind how this one core strength of mine never came into play with regard to my marriage with Penny. One of the reasons our marriage continued to fester for as long as it did with the stench of rigor mortis was because there was no obvious crisis point to trigger me into any type of, “Act NOW!” mode.

I’m pretty good in a crisis.

When the proverbial poop impacts the rotating oscillator, I’ve tended to snap immediately to an inner sense of calm. What does this mean? What is happening? What are my resources? What are my options? Now… Act!

—–

There was the time I was driving through a snow-bound pass on Interstate 5, when the car in front of ours spun completely out of control right in front of us. Our mini-van was relatively new… as was our first born child, secured tightly in his car seat where he slept. Just me, Penny, and our baby in the van. It was dark. Late at night. Snow coming down in big, wet cotton balls. Traffic was light-ish, but there were more cars on the road than one might have expected, moving a little bit faster than perhaps was ideal.

As the car in front of us started fishtailing, I immediately went to that zone of awareness. Assessment. Response. Foot off the accelerator, but not on the brake. Their car starts spinning. I steer gently (but not too gently!) to the right, threading the needle between the spinning car in front of us (left-most lane) and the sparsely-spaced line of cars to our right. And I jussst get past. But then the road is curving to the right, and the “All Wheel Drive” computer starts fighting me for control of the car. I can feel it as it shifts from front wheel drive to rear wheel drive — I have years of experience with both, in snowy conditions, but they each demand a different kind of driving. I adjust. Then the AWD computer adjusts to my adjustment, and shifts back to front wheel drive. I adjust again. The concrete barrier along the left-hand side is looming ahead of us as I try to maintain control, which the AWD computer keeps trying to take away. I missed the spinning car and the traffic to the right, but I can’t regain control of the van as we slide into the concrete barrier angling ahead. Bump! The front end taps the barrier. The tail end swings around. We’re still moving. We’re spinning. Bump! The tail end hits the barrier. We’re still moving, and still spinning. The engine stalls. We slide to a stop, at a forty-five degree angle to the forward direction we should be facing. I look through the window by our baby’s car seat. Headlights coming our way. I throw the gear into Neutral, turn the ignition, the engine leaps to life, pop it into drive, and slowly accelerate and straighten the car, avoiding being hit by the oncoming traffic. Once I’m able, I slowly make our way over to the right and take the first exit, looking for a place to inspect the damage and make sure we don’t have a fuel leak.

Yes, in hindsight, I was driving too fast for the conditions of the road; too close to the car in front of us when I had no previous experience with how an AWD would respond to adverse conditions. I put too much faith in two decades of experience with Buffalo and Boston winters, where driving is one long, controlled skid. Lesson learned.

But as I walked around the car checking for damage, Penny stood by holding a second flashlight, a sound of awe in her voice. “I never could have stayed calm like that.”

—–

There was the Nisqually earthquake of February, 2001. I was in a meeting with six or seven co-workers when the bones of the building started making a loud clanking noise, like suddenly construction workers had decided to tap out morse code messages in the girders. Then the floor lurched. That’s when I realized what was happening.

“Everybody under the table,” I said. I didn’t even think about it. I’d had training in what to do in emergency situations, but living through that was an eye-opener. When the emergency hits, some people slide right into command mode, while others slide into obey mode. The funny thing is, many of the people who had taken the training with me proved that day to be the people who slip into obey mode.

Before I’d even finished the sentence, everyone in our little room was under the conference table. Everyone but me. I was standing up, riding the wave, making sure everyone was safe, when it dawned on me: they didn’t leave me any room! I managed to get at least the upper half of my body protected, crouching down with my head and torso under the table and my behind extending out past the end. Good times, my friends, good times.

After the shaking subsided — the building’s shaking, I mean — I led our group to the staircase, directing traffic as other groups merged with ours, and then sweeping the area for stragglers, checking for injuries, and so on. Of the four floor-captains and four assistant floor captains for our floor (this was a large office building in downtown Seattle), only two of us seemed to remember any training, or manage to keep any kind of control as the aftermath played out. Fortunately, that was all that was needed.

—–

There was the time I was a teenager, separated from my camping buddies in the Canadian National Forest. Our campsite must be just over that hill. No, well, over that next rise over there. No? Well…

It was the height of summer. Hot and sticky. The mosquitos — Ontario’s provincial bird — were out in force. By the time I realized that I was lost, I was very, very, very lost. I could feel the panic start to rise up in me. And that was when I found it — the centering calm. This may well have been the first time that I discovered this little survival mechanism within me, that before panic could take over, I would just… calm.

Okay. I can not trust my sense of direction. I can’t even trust myself to go back the way I came. (Yes, I tried briefly, and discovered it was hopeless.) Don’t panic. What do I do?

Use the sun and the moss on the trees as my guide. Pick one direction and head that way consistently, until I hit a road or a stream. Then go from there.

I found a dirt road. I wasn’t sure whether to turn left or right, but it would either take me either to the highway or the camp grounds eventually. Turns out, I chose the direction that took me to the camp grounds. I’d been gone for a few hours. Nobody had noticed.

Later, I learned just how fucking big the Canadian National Forest is. I’m glad I never had to put any of that boy scout training to the test.

As with my driving story above, I learned that the best way to deal with a crisis is to head it off if at all possible by not getting into that situation again.

Fuck camping.

—–

Then there was the time I was married to Penny.

There were danger signs, sure, but nothing… urgent. No crisis point. Nobody had an affair; nobody got violent; nobody had a complete break-down. The cops were never called; no intervention was staged. Rather, our sexual dry spells went longer and longer; we did fewer things together; dissatisfaction gave way to sadness, which gave way to mild depression. Slowly, we tapered off spending time with friends. We pulled back from the outside world, and from each other.

When I finally worked up the nerve to demand something more — when I finally wrote Penny the Letter — she announced she was pregnant. That overshadowed, for a time, the low level discontentment of our marriage. But it didn’t solve it.

I’m pretty good in a crisis, but something I’m going to have to get better at is recognizing and acting upon warning signs.

Because it turns out, you can have a disaster without having a crisis.

Compliments of the House…

I’ve been contemplating this post for a while, so it’s interesting to see the subject come up among others in my “blog family” as well. The issue: giving and receiving compliments.

The fact is, I’m bad at it, and I want to become better at it. Both giving and receiving.

I think, over the years, I’ve managed to at least become a little more graceful in receiving them. I certainly love to hear compliments, which is interesting given that I often nonetheless manage to doubt the message… without doubting the messenger. If someone says, “I like your XXX,” I think to myself, “No, my XXX is awful,” but at the same time, I don’t think to myself, “That person is a bad judge of XXXs.”

I know I’m not the only person who does that — who denies the validity of a compliment without disregarding the person offering it.

A friend of mine made a comment recently that she thought I’d look ‘hot’ if I shaved my head.

Several years ago, I went skiing for the first time. Worked up a sweat, of course, but while wearing a heavy knit hat. Took off said hat toward the end, and a friend snapped a picture. The nature of being all sweaty and having had that hat on meant my hair was plastered to my skull, and because my hair was more blond at the time than it is now, it had the effect of making me look bald. I saw that picture, and I said, “Oh. My. God. I look like Uncle Fester from the Addams Family.”

So here I am now, overweight and balding — and, worse yet, what little hair I do have left is no longer the color I’ve always identified myself as having — and this beautiful woman says I’d look ‘hot’ with a bald head. Do I think, “Well, that’s promising, given the direction my hairline is taking?”

No. Instead, I think:

AHHHHHHH!!!!!!

The thing is, it’s not like I think she has bad taste in men. In fact, I have every reason to believe that she has excellent, discriminating taste. I also have no reason to believe that she’s putting me on. But my reaction is nonetheless akin to thinking that her taste must be flawed where I am concerned.

I’m sure part of my automatic rejection of compliments is an effort to make sure I don’t get a big head. (Heh. Big head. Like Uncle Fester. Heh.) But part of it clearly must also be tied to self-doubt.

I know I am well-served to keep some small amount of healthy self-doubt. But how do I know where the dividing line is between a respectful desire to continue improving myself and a plain ol’ unhealthy, negative self-image?

When I say I’m at least more graceful now at receiving compliments, I mean to say that I’ve gotten better at acknowledging them. (Now, instead of saying “Please don’t. Stop.” I say, “Please, don’t stop.”) How I process them internally is still a work in progress.

But even more difficult for me is offering compliments.

My college experience consisted, among other things, of being told that women are not — repeat NOT! — to be viewed as sexual objects. Political correctness was on the rampage — all compliments were to be viewed with suspicion as manipulative attempts to subjugate the recipient. “You look beautiful,” clearly objectifies the woman you say this to, and “I like the way you’ve done your hair today,” represents the imposition of fashion standards by the male-dominated society upon the subservient female class.

I guess this problem ties into the first: that in a culture where compliments are to be met with cynicism, it is easy both to doubt them when they are offered, but also to doubt the wisdom of extending them in the first place.

There was this one time when a friend of mine (who, let’s face it, was, in fact, sexually voracious) and I went to the offices of a student organization, and one of the women there was looking particularly attractive that day. Except, while I simply thought that thought, my friend went so far as to say, “Doreen, you look positively glowing today. That look really suits you.”

To the extent that Doreen was already glowing, her glow increased five-fold. Oh my, how she brightened at his compliment.

Wow, I thought to myself. You can actually say that to a woman? It’s okay to compliment a woman on how she looks? THAT’S OKAY?!?

But I’ve always been uncomfortable offering compliments, no matter how much I felt they needed to be said. I’ve always worried that they would be received as some cynical attempt at manipulation. And… I’m not that guy. I’m not the cynical manipulator.

I was talking with a female friend the other day who said, at least four times during our conversation, words to the effect of, “it’s getting later, and I’m not getting any prettier.” And I just wanted to say, “Look, you! You are a very attractive woman, so stop putting yourself down like that!”

But I didn’t want it to sound like a come-on. (Like yelling at a person to stop putting themselves down would be a come-on. But you get my point.) I didn’t have any ulterior motives, but I feared that it would sound like I did.

[Note to said friend: beauty isn't about freshly-showered versus end-of-day hair! You are beautiful anyway! Note to self: why can you see that your friend is attractive regardless of whether she has a trim bod or a fresh do, but you can't accept the notion that you might be attractive to someone even though you don't have a trim bod or fresh do, yourself?]

You know what just occurred to me?

I can’t think of any compliments my wife has ever given me, even when we were at our best together.

I remember her saying once, “You should wear that kind of shirt more often.”

But never, “You look good in that shirt.”

So, how do I learn to do a better job of offering compliments, given a dearth of experience both giving and receiving? How do I become more comfortable letting my friends (and strangers!) know I value them?

This is not a rhetorical question. This is important.

Let me say that again: This. Is. Important.

Why? Because it is important to me to be able to better connect with people. I need that. And it’s important to me to be a force for good. The more I can shine my light, perhaps the more the world around me will become brighter. Yes, Gabe is on my mind as I write this, but I’ve been thinking about this long before I saw Gabe’s final poetry slam performance. I want to be a force for good. And making the people around me feel good about themselves matters.

What’s more, I’d like to be able to offer that to potential future dates and romantic partners. I want to be a better romantic partner. I want to be able to speak truthfully and plainly about what I like in another person without it coming across as merely some attempt at getting them to bed, regardless of whether I’m actually trying to get them into bed. You know? ie, Just because I want you to sleep with me doesn’t mean that I don’t sincerely think you’re beautiful.

I did offer my soon-to-be-ex-wife compliments. Often. Either I wasn’t offering those compliments well, or she wasn’t receiving them well. I need to know if I can do better. Again… it matters.

It has occurred to me that I could try modeling what I see and hear around me. But, the funny thing is, most of what I see and hear around me is women talking with other women. “Ohhh, that looks great!” A guy can’t quite get away with that sing-songy approach. And even so, I simply don’t have that many people around me who do much in the way of offering each other compliments.

What are your thoughts, dear reader? Oh, and allow me to say, I’ve sincerely appreciated all of the comments you’ve been making on my posts. You are not only thoughtful and intelligent, dear reader, but you are also, each and every one of you, “wicked fucking hot.”

Attitude: The Airplane Story

The notion that people who have cancer must have been thinking cancer thoughts is ludicrous. Good things happen to grouches all the time, just as bad things happen to good, happy, lovely people. All. The. Time. And it has nothing to do with what their mantra was on any given day.

But it’s funny to think that if “The Secret” has any merit to it, then I killed a man.

See, I used to have this apartment that I shared with a certain fellow I knew from my college days. I moved out (to move cross country), and my former roommate moved into a smaller apartment downstairs. Then a lovely young couple (engaged to be married) took our old apartment.

As fortune would have it, I returned to this city about  a year later. I was taking a much higher paying job than I’d had previously, and could therefore afford to take over the apartment I had previously had to share… if, that was, it was available. Ohhhhh, I so wanted it to be available. Pleeeease, let it be available. I really wanted it back again. It was a great apartment. Perfect location (within walking distance of everything), hardwood floors, backed up next to a park. Excellently maintained by the landlords.

So as I was driving into town (where I would be crashing with some friends until I found a place to live), I offered up a wish to get my old apartment back.

That’s the day that the fellow who took over my old apartment with his lovely fiance dropped dead of a heart attack. At the age of 32. That very same day.

Some would say this was a very interesting coincidence. I would be among them. Others would say it was “The Secret,” or my prayers being answered, or whatever. If so, then I suppose I need to be a little more specific when I make my wishes, because when I wanted my old apartment back, it’s not that I wanted it over the dead body of the guy who had been living there.

His fiance couldn’t afford to keep the place herself. Within a month or two, she moved out. I moved in. Wish fulfilled.

(I will also note that about a year later, while I lived in this very same apartment, my former roommate — the one who moved to the downstairs apartment in the same house — wooed away my girlfriend. How’s that for an unintended consequence of getting back my old apartment? This sent me into a tailspin of epic proportions. That’s the very same girlfriend I eventually wooed back by becoming a better man, but she did not, alas, become a better woman, and so here I am almost a decade and a half later preparing to divorce her. I really, really wanted to win her back. And I did. Be careful what you wish for, no?)

I wish and/or hope for things all the time that never come to pass. It’s the “hits” — those occasions when good fortune lines up with my wishes — that end up making the biggest impressions, however.

Which brings me to a little story that illustrates a difference in attitude between Penny (my soon-to-be-ex-wife, for those of you new to this blog) and me.

—–

Penny hates to fly. Penny is prone to learned helplessness — that sense that things are beyond her ability to do anything about. I, on the other hand, have generally loved to fly. And I am prone to actively seeking ways to make things better.

We were flying from one coast of North America to the other. This is before we had kids. This is before September 11 made air travel the joy that it is today. The line at our gate was waaay backed up, and by the time we got to speak with the fine young folks behind the desk, we learned we were in limbo. Our flight was delayed — mechanical problems with our plane, apparently, so a different, smaller plane (with a different seating configuration) was replacing the one we were originally intended to use. Since the flight was overbooked, they couldn’t guarantee we’d get seats, even though we had a seat assignment on the previous plane.

There was a very real possibility that, if we insisted on traveling together (we did), we wouldn’t both be able to get a seat on this plane, and would therefore have to wait for another flight… which, at that point, looked like the next day. Which would mean missing some important event that we were flying to (it’s been so long, I don’t recall what the event was.)

Penny’s mood went into that metaphorical tailspin. “Just great. We’re probably going to get stuck here, or they’ll put one of us on this plane and the other on another…” She listed scenario after scenario of all the things that could (and some of which were quite likely to) go wrong. And given how messed up the situation was, I might have been inclined to agree that our prospects seemed bleak.

But she was so negative that my attitude circuit breakers just snapped off. No, I thought. I refuse to go down that path. Sure, this has the potential to suck, but it doesn’t have to. In fact…

“You know what, Penny? I don’t think so. I think we’re going to get on that plane, and we’re going to have a fantastic flight. Or if not this plane, an even better one. I refuse to have a bad trip. I’m going to have a wonderful flight. And since you’re with me, so are you.”

I went up to the counter once more, and again asked if there was any hope of getting seats, etc. I was very nice and pleasant about the whole thing. Hey, it wasn’t their fault this happened. No, sorry sir, we’re still trying to figure out who gets the remaining seats, but we’ll let you know. It is looking doubtful, however.

Okay. Fine. I’m not letting this ruin my mood. I tried, apparently to no avail. But I remained open to good things happening.

Penny: Well? Are they giving us both seats?

Me: Not yet. They can’t commit to anything.

I don’t think she actually said, “I told you so,” but she may as well have.

That didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let her grumpy ju-ju rain on my determination to have a decent trip.

“I still say that everything is going to work out fine. In fact… better than fine.”

Two minutes later — two minutes — one of the nice young ladies from behind the desk walked up to me and said, “Sir, we were able to get you and your wife each a seat in first class as a courtesy upgrade. You won’t be able to sit next to each other, but you’ll be in adjacent aisle seats. Would that be okay?”

I looked at Penny. I don’t think I actually said, “I told you so,” but I may as well have.

—–

This past weekend has been rough. Friday, in particular, with the monthly, quarterly, and annual government-required paperwork and payments all due, problems on the production-side of the business, me having to stay at the office until 4am and miss putting the kids to bed… oh, and my friend dying. Not great.

And today (Sunday) ending with a troubling conversation between Penny and me (which I may get into in a future blog post — it’s more of a scheduling problem than anything that affects the divorce, but it’s indicative of years of pent up resentment on both sides)… also, not great.

Easy to focus on the bad. Easy to anticipate problems. And after years of being mired in a marriage that, no matter how I tried, I could never make work, I must confess that a lot of the positive mindset I used to be known for has cooled off.

But a friend of mine who has known me since our grad school days reminded me recently: I’m a happy guy. As I get out of this marriage, that happy guy is going to re-emerge. My friend is already seeing signs of it. And so am I.

Yes, this weekend started off with a lot of unhappy, but it also featured a wonderful Skype conversation with a new friend, and an IM chat with another. New friends are awesome. And after I posted news of my friend Gabe’s passing, the outpouring of support and love and honor on my blog here and on my facebook page has been amazing. Words cannot convey how profound it has been for me to see Gabe’s Message re-broadcast and/or retweeted not only by my blog family (thanks Samantha and Nicki and Jolene and T’s Quest and Single Mom Mindy and anyone else who forwarded along Gabe’s message), but also by my other friends in “real life” who never had a chance to meet Gabe. Many, many of my friends re-posted the link to Gabe’s YouTube video on their Facebook pages. The more I saw this, the more I felt like the light she shone on the world still burns brightly.

Actually, before I leave that thought — thank you to each and every one of you who commented on my blog or sent me a private e-mail with your kind thoughts for Gabe and for me. It’s tough to lose a friend. But, you know what? It’s fantastic to find out you have such amazing new friends. Your support has helped more than I can tell.

But that’s all by way of saying… I need to recapture that can-do attitude. I need to reject the notion that if something can go wrong, it will. No. NO, I say. HELL, NO. I refuse to have a bad transition to my new life. I am open to good things happening. Now.

I refuse to have a bad life. I’m going to have a fantastic life. And since you’re with me… so are you!

One last call…

[Update: Gabe passed away this evening at 6pm, Central Time. Her friend, whom I had phoned earlier today, was kind enough to call me and give me the news directly.

Gabrielle Bouliane was 43 years old.

The post below was written and posted a few hours prior, just after I'd spoken with her friend, who was with her at hospice. Although Gabe was still alive at the time, I could tell from the tone of the conversation that things were not going well.]

—–

A few days ago, I sent a message to my friend Gabe via her Facebook page. I told her about the post I’d written for her, and that I’d also included a link to her YouTube video of her final public performance. I haven’t heard back.

In fact, I’ve had no direct contact with her in quite a while (by direct I mean, any text or other message intended specifically for me). So, while I’ve been trying not to be a burden on the friends who are supporting her while she battles her illness, I finally decided to phone the woman who has been acting as Gabe’s intermediary with visitors — someone who’s been making sure people know when it’s safe to visit, and when it’s not, etc.

Gabe is on serious pain medications and is, well, not really up for much of anything right now. She hasn’t had any access to her computer in days. She can’t talk on the phone.

“Is that likely to change any time soon?” I asked.

“No,” said her friend. And with that word, and the tone of her voice, she told me everything.

Gabe’s not coming back.

Her friend said that she’ll give me a call if Gabe should return to being up for a phone call. I thanked her for all she’s doing for our friend.

Quite frankly, I don’t know if I could handle a call at this point without going to pieces myself, even if such a call were to happen — which her friend clearly doesn’t expect. But of course, if there’s an opportunity, I’ll take it.

—–

When I was in my early-to-mid-twenties, my dearest cousin was killed in a car accident. He was twenty-one. It was between Christmas and New Year’s.

I have known all four of my grandparents, and all four are now gone. In one case, I got to say goodbye. In the other cases, I did not.

I’ve lost great aunts and great uncles and co-workers. A high school friend and a high school teacher. A college acquaintance who died here in Seattle, and I didn’t even know he was here until he was gone.

Gabe was an important part of my life, yes. But it’s not like we ever dated, or spent an amazing amount of time together. We were kindred spirits, sharing the journey here and there.

So why is this hitting me so damn hard?

—–

The candle that I’ve kept lit for Gabe won’t light any more. It’s run out.

I’ll get another one later today. But I already know that one’s not for Gabe.

That one’s for her memory.

And for those of us who still have time.

A Poem: The Sanctity of Marriage

Here’s a little poem that I wrote a few years ago — about two years into our marriage, in fact. I created the video and added a few lines earlier last year… but, of course, didn’t dare show my work to my wife or our mutual friends.

The poem didn’t have a title until I made the video, but I think “The Sanctity of Marriage” suits it:

Keepsakes

I have accumulated a lot of crap over the years.

I’ve always been somewhat of a pack rat. When you’re a moderate pack rat, once you own a house (and/or your own office space), you have more room for stuff and less incentive to weed it out and toss the stuff you don’t need.

I’ve heard that there’s now a television reality show about extreme pack rats called “Hoarders.” I’m not one of those. Not even close. But, still….

Now that a move of both household and business is inevitable, I need to start weeding out the crap.

Of course, this has been obviously the case for some time now, and it’s amazing how many other things keep cropping up that also need to be done. Nonetheless, earlier today (Tuesday, January 26th — yes, it’s after midnight, but I haven’t gone to bed yet, so it’s still Tuesday to me, no matter what the clock and the computer say), I finally managed to pick a box from a stack of boxes that have never been opened since the last move, and started weeding.

The top half of the box was a pile of mail that had obviously needed to be sorted just prior to the last move, but was shoved into this box in a rush to get our stuff out of the last place. And then it was just… forgotten. Easy enough. I like the advice from the graduation address known as Everybody’s Free (to Wear Sunscreen): “Keep your old love letters; throw away your old bank statements.” Buh-bye, credit card offers and book club solicitations. File away that letter from [someone]. And so on.

But the bottom half of the box contained my high school memorabilia. My varsity letters (with my name spelled incorrectly, no less) for swimming. My high school diplomas — in New York State, you could earn a diploma from your high school, from the state’s Regent’s Board, or both. Awards for various other things; I didn’t even take them out of the packing paper, having been called away in the middle of this chore by the phone and other matters.

As I go through each box, I’m going to face some easy decisions about what to keep and throw away, but there are going to be a lot of harder decisions. Like the ones from this box.

I don’t display diplomas… although, given how expensive my diploma from University and Grad School were, I don’t think I’ll be throwing them away just yet. I tend not to display awards, although recent taekwondo competition trophies are proudly collecting dust atop the refrigerator in my kitchen. But what of my high school triumphs? Who cares that I was a champion ‘mathlete’ or a ‘Master Debater’? Sure, I’ll keep the yearbooks and photos, just to remind myself every so often that I really did used to have hair, or that I really did used to have amazing muscle tone. But the Hugh G. Rection Award for Poetry for some crap I submitted to the school district’s “Best of…” compilation my junior year?

As a (moderate, he insisted) pack rat, I’m inclined to look at them, re-pack them, and keep them tucked away in a box until the next move — or the move after that — to be again inspected and repacked. As someone who is likely to move more than once in the next few years, as my financial situation (and living situation) contract and then expand again, I’m inclined to just throw or give everything away. Well, except my books. My many, many books.

So how do I decide what to keep? What’s the yardstick by which to measure?

When does a keepsake become a ditchsake?