January 2, 2010

"Lucky Bunny"

In the beginning, I didn’t get it. The whole ‘taking it slow’ thing just didn’t make practical sense to me. Of course I understood the concept—I had, like the rest of the world, read The Tortoise and The Hare—but when confronted with the choice between dial up and 4G, who would ever choose the former? My life was infiltrated by faster downloads, DVR, and an internet of information on demand—I expected to eat within seven minutes of ordering, pick up my dry cleaning the next day, and look at my pictures as soon as I had taken them. Didn’t relationships also evolve at a trillion megabits per second?

So two months in, I was writing the line, “I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you if I didn’t think we could become something more.” I was calling him my boyfriend, morphing into what I so desperately wanted to get away from: Relationship Woman. You know the type—never single for long, always looking for the next man to define her, to ground her into being relied upon, needed, desired, and appreciated. She never gives herself a moment to actually breathe in her own skin, to be free of that role, to enjoy life without that external validation or the responsibilities that ultimately come with that Him.

Like the Hare, she races toward commitment, whizzing past the Tortoise at breaking-the-sound-barrier-speed. Somewhere between the beginning and the end of the relationship, she realizes that she can’t keep up with that pace—that there are so many other things in life to enjoy, become, and do. So she ends up slacking off, smelling the flowers until she’s drunk, and taking a nap. Meanwhile the Tortoise, who has been concentrating on each step, eventually crosses the finish first (likely on his way somewhere else and not really paying attention to the race at all) without having a heart attack or a nervous breakdown.

This is the drama I’m trying to undo in my life—this over-doing that leads to divorcing, this all-out sprint to finish what should be chewed and savored. Because after four years of marriage, it was all I could do to get out of the house to find my groove. We had been together for seven years, but I looked at the life that was coming, and realized that I had taken the lead in everything. I had helped him get out of debt. I had paid the bills. I made all the decisions. I took the blame for all the mistakes. And he barely left the house, cooking, cleaning, and laundrying the days away. I didn’t feel like I had a choice, but the truth is, I did: I could have left then. But like the Hare, I thought I had it in me.

And I had been Relationship Woman for as long as I could remember. In fact, the one time I was single for two years, I spent the majority of the time desperately pining for an ex who’d had enough of my waffling between him and a summer fling. He had asked me to choose, and when I faltered, he left without looking back. My first love from eighteen to twenty, it had never been that way between us. Still, when I found myself boyfriendless for the only time between when I started dating at sixteen and now, I spent that ‘alone’ time trying to win him back. Surely he would return. I had power, didn’t I?

My insatiable ego needed him to love me so that I could feel like I was worth something. And so I slinked and swayed. I batted and blushed. And when I finally stopped chasing him, of course he wanted me back. But I had already moved on.

From then on, I decided that relationships were not what I wanted. How, then, did I always seem to find myself in one? I hated labels, but truth be told, I was always a girlfriend. Then I became a wife. And now, twenty years later, I can’t give much any more, even though I want to. And so I’m looking at my obsession with being needed and wanted. I’m spending the next year sober, aware, and open to all of the terrible, wonderful insights I plan to have about my patterns and psychosis. And I’m evaluating the fact that I am Relationship Woman—still kind of ‘with’ someone. But this time I’m lucky.

At first, I didn’t know what to do about this strange incarnation of a man. Monogamous sex, fantastic foot massages, and an interesting mind, I studied him critically for a few weeks. Then, like a drug addicted bunny, I escaped the reality of having to live with my mother and the pain of my ex husband moving to another country with the thrill and excitement of Mr. Tortoise, but he wasn’t having it. He kept me at a respectable distance, actually listening to what I had said from the beginning about not being ready for anything right now—about wanting my own space, about wanting my own life. Well, truth be told, it was likely convenient because he also wasn’t ready for all that, either. Regardless of the reason, we are taking it slow, which is was just what I need.

And something happens when I stand back and look at my actions over time. I realize how I repeatedly try to meld into a relationship, even though I know it isn’t what I want right now. Given five or six days between talking, I’ve had the time to reassess and back the fuck up.

Because what I want is someone who’s there, but isn’t really there—someone to hold my hand but not get in the way. I want someone who has his own life, interests, friends, and goals, so that I can have the same without feeling guilty. I want someone who is honest, genuine, and trustworthy, someone who tries his best and has the capacity to grow with me, someone who makes me laugh and cooks me lasagna.

And right now, I have that: a man I see once a week, who doesn’t get all up in my business, but who is interested in what’s happening in my life. And I’m finally realizing that I don’t need to stress out about taking lots of time to enjoy the present—that my thoughts are better used on paying my mortgage and spending time with my friends, writing and reading novels, chilling at home and listening to music, being at the beach or checking out a movie. I have so much in my life to enjoy without him that I wonder why I didn’t see how fantastic this was before—it’s like being single but without the random men and the loneliness.

Not that I’m the kind of girl who would have either. Because like it or not, I am Relationship Woman. If it wasn’t for him, I would find a another fantastic man and be in a real relationship, claiming the whole time I wasn’t ready for it, but giving my whole heart instead because that’s what I do. Then, after six months, or a year or two years—after I’ve spent no time alone, after we’ve fallen in love and decided to marry, I’ll be exactly where I was before this whole divorce happened—on the verge of suicide, feeling trapped and smothered by a man who needs me: a man I invited in.

I get it now—we are trying each other on slowly, and nothing at all could come of it. And that’s the best part, because what bothered me most about marriage in the first place was the presumption that we humans know what it means to say ‘forever.’ We’re always changing and growing, but in all honesty, we couldn’t and don’t know the future. I’m not saying that marriage is out of the question for me—I’m just saying that people who get married know just as much about guarantees as me and Mr. Tortoise: absolutely nothing. Because all we have is right now, and the faith in ourselves that we’ll get there (wherever ‘there’ is) when we get there.

So I’m finally where I wanted to be from the beginning of this particular race: I’m keeping what I’ve earned and sharing when I feel like it. Because I can’t do it for anyone else. And no one else can do it for me. I’m going back to keeping my own council, to understanding my needs without my friends’ opinions about what makes sense. Because to them, this situation is completely illogical. To them, there is no in between on the spectrum of singleness and relationship, and the later means losing the self, spending every waking moment with the other person, talking and texting throughout the day until all at once, they burn out. And like the Hare, they end up wondering why they were in the race at all since the sense of self that they lose is greater than anything they could gain.

Besides, I have a completely fulfilling and replete life, with or without Mr. Tortoise. So I’m set on remembering all the reasons for my bliss. I have a house of my own, a car I love driving, and a closet full of cute dresses. I have a passion to write and a child-like obsession with asking questions rather than making assumptions. I have space to think, time to learn, the experience and wherewithal to make money, and the determination to take care of myself. I have a family that totally takes care of me and loves me, a slew of fantastic friends (many of whom can easily talk me out of any funk I’m in), and respect from my colleagues. I have a healthy body that twists in yoga, sweats in spin class, dances, runs, and jumps up high, swims, makes love, hugs, and cries, sleeps, eats, and regenerates itself with every breath.

I have a healthy mind to dream whatever dream I want—the power to manifest those dreams into reality, and an alignment with god that makes me feel so close to myself, to my own divinity, that I am finally joyful and at peace again. I am finally optimistic and faith-filled again, remembering that the most important part of this existence is to humbly give thanks for ‘what is.’ Because I have so much. I am loved. I am held, and there is only the future ahead of me—a blank page I can write whatever I want upon. It truly is exhilarating and lovely—this lone-full-ness. Blessed be, blessed me. I absolutely am one lucky bunny.