She Lives...For Better or Worse

Oh, for crying in a bucket. Even I'm tired of looking at this old post. Geez, Louise. You'd think I'd dropped off the face of the planet. If only I had an excuse that good.

So, here's what I've been up to since January 8th (my last post):

• I did indeed have Lasik surgery (see photo). I am now seeing clearly out of my very own eyes! Well, my right one anyway. The left one is coming along nicely, but it had more work done on it so it's taking longer to catch up. I highly recommend this procedure, surgery is really too strong a word for a 34 second encounter with a laser. Run don't walk to your nearest trusted Lasik center now, unless of course you're happy with your vision.
• I got a new job! I now work at the Best Place Ever! I'm the Transition Coordinator for an alternative school in NoPo. I work with high school seniors and help them figure out what comes next, 'cuz graduation is not an ending, it's really a new beginning. gack.
• Six weeks later I was asked to fill in for someone on maternity leave. So for the last 12 weeks of the school year I'm a Career and Academic Advisor in Career Services at the Best Place Ever!
• Six weeks later they gave my Transition Coordinator position to someone else during the restructuring process without even letting me apply for my own position like everyone else had, er, got to do. Umm...hey...I was uh, I was the Transition Coordinator. Didja not notice that? Well, they did notice that and they love me and so they're trying to scrape together enough money to come up with a full-time job for me starting in July. So everything could turn out perfectly with a full-time tailor-made job starting in July, when the pregnant lady comes back, OR I could be out of work and unable to pay rent. I'm holding out for Option A, but if you know of a good job for me, do let me know. I'm fabulous. Trust me.
• In March, at the one year mark of the day I left my husband and started the emotional rollercoaster that is an intentional separation, he called me a day before our agreed upon State of the Union Address and said, "Are you happier? Because you seem happier." I sheepishly replied that I was and he said, "Then I guess we don't really have anything to talk about." So he filed taxes and I said I would file for divorce, but I haven't yet. I don't like the word divorce as it relates to me. I haven't been able to start calling him "my ex" either. These terms have such negative connotations that don't really apply here. I'm proud of us for navigating these uncharted waters without breaking a single dish, bankrupting ourselves and keeping our friendship intact. I think it's pretty impressive. And now I shall utter the words of my father, words I shudder to utter (har har) (changed slightly to reflect the appropriate gender), "I love him, but I just can't live with him." Damn. I have become my father. Ack. Phift.
• I have become pretty good at drinking, but have discovered that I suck at singing karaoke, although that hasn't stopped me from trying and having tons of fun.
• I'm a horrendous bowler, although, thankfully, bowling does not require skill to be fun.
• I've reunited with a whole host of old high school friends through Facebook, duh, which has been more fun that it has a right to be. There's something powerful about hanging out with people who've known you since you were a kid. We're having a great time saying things like, "Oh, you were so hot in HS. I so should've done you back then." Followed by, "Really? You thought I was hot?" Followed by, "OMG, duh!" We get together every month now, except for David and Sol and Amy who NEVER SHOW UP! Whuck's up with that?!!! The only problem is, everyone is married and therefore presumably unavailable, which I lament because I would very much like to be having tons and tons of sex.
• I have perfected my Joey Tribiani, "How you doin'?" look. It is evidently so powerful that it caused a tall, shiny black Cubano in a bar to make out with me on the dance floor. And then another time it caused a nicely dressed black man on a passing train to get off at the next stop, wait for me and then hand me his phone number as soon as the door to my train opened. I must use the force wisely, so great is its power.
• I have begun to believe, for the second time ever, that I am beautiful and attractive and sexy and fun, nevermind my weight or age. I say very little about this, but it is the biggest, most monumental change I've encountered thus far. I must note that Mr. Karin always adored me, treated me like a princess, praised the virtues of my ample hips and thighs, seemed unphased by my sad little breasts and loved to kiss that spot between them. So, I cannot properly explain why self-appreciation of my figure is only happening now. Feel free to offer your theories in the comments.
• I am happy. Most of the time I am happy. When I do get in a funk, which happens, I notice that my funks are less funky and they subside quickly.

Sitting Here in Limbo: where Karin finally says what she's been thinking these many silent months

You may know that I moved in March into a brand new building with the magical dish washing machine, thereby launching the beginning of my brand new life. Right, well, I promptly fell flat on my face with grief at the lost of what had been a 10 year marriage. Mind you, this was all my idea, moving out, making this change, so you can imagine how shocked I was to discover that my brand new life sucked.

That's not true, lots of things about it agree with me. My place is decorated and arranged exactly the way I like. There is rarely a mess, as I'm a controlling neat-freak, which doesn't bother me in the least when I live alone. I realize this trait can be, let's say, abrasive to a husband, lover, full time housemate who doesn't yet know that it's my way or the highway. I like to have a place for everything and everything in its place, which really only works if everyone in the house likes this, too. So, I'm really enjoying the fact that the soymilk is always in the same place in the refrigerator when I reach for it in the morning when I'm not yet awake, because cereal with vegetable broth is just not the same. I like it that all my canned goods are arranged categorically with the labels facing out, partly because it just makes sense and partly because I hate bar codes. I like that my bed is always made. I think I like it inordinately so. A made bed with tucked sheets is easily one of my favorite things in life. And, because I’m devoting less time to my relationship with Mr. K, I'm hanging out with my friends a lot more. I'm glad about that.

Those are just the little things and there are so many more, but there are big things, too. When I get hungry, angry, lonely or tired, it doesn't really matter because there's no one around to piss off, offend or annoy. Hungry, angry, lonely or tired = HALT. This was an excellent piece of advice given to us once--never have a serious conversation if either or both of us are hungry, angry, lonely or tired. Whatever it is can wait. I can't say it saved our marriage, but I can say it was enormously helpful. We also added sad, as in grieving, in a funk or depressed because no one's thinking clearly when they're in a funk. So, HALTS. I notice that I have to HALT less often now, because the sandpaper of me is not scraping up against anyone.

Except for my ridiculously noisy neighborhood, which now includes a sports bar/restaurant/night club in my building that's open until 2am and has an unbearably loud kitchen exhaust fan, my place is quiet when I want it to be. Nobody talks to me in the morning. Let me say that again. Nobody talks to me in the morning. I enjoy this even more than a made bed with tucked sheets. You have no idea. Talking to me in the morning is dangerous. I'm not kidding. My good brother-like friend from Senegal (that's in Africa, people, get a globe) had the misfortune of calling me at 4:30 in the morning some months back. All I said was, "It's 4:30 in the MORNing!" And hung up. Later I remembered my rudeness, but have been too embarrassed to call him back. In college, my roommates, who were only slightly less grouchy than me in the morning, learned to just acknowledge my presence in the morning. “Karin,” they’d quietly say with a nod of the head. Then they’d return to doing their hair, putting on their face, what have you, as I shuffled around in a stupor. My husband learned early on to keep is distance from me in the morning, but because he’s such a morning person—singing, chatting, doing taxes—he’d forget and start talking to me. My head would spin, my eyes would shoot flames and I’d shriek, “What are you new?”

I really only have two role models for how post-marriage life works. One, my dad, who had a long series of dead end relationships with, how shall I say this, women who were less than desirable mother figures, finally settling on a woman who'd been married four times before him. Or two, my mother and aunt G, both of whom basically became sexless spinsters filling their evenings with Jeopardy, the Reader's Digest and Spite & Malice (a card game). Over sexed and undersexed, are these my only options? Mind you, there's nothing wrong with a diet of Jeopardy, the Reader's Digest and Spite & Malice, if it makes you happy. I just don't think it would make me happy.

Oh, crap, now I've done it. Now I have to ask myself what would make me happy. My first thought is, "I have no idea." Then it occurs to me that if I don't know, then know one knows. I must know. Okay, I'd like to live in Marseilles, a beautiful Mediterranean town about the size of Portland with a significant north and west African population. That sounds like fun. And it's only a four hour plane ride to Dakar and eight hours to New York, places where some of my very favorite people live. Why not. I also want to finally get my Master's degree in intercultural relations. The plan had always been that I'd put him through school, then he'd put me through school, but just before he graduated I left. Key-rap, I've really screwed myself on that one, haven't I?

I'm not looking for anyone else. Not really. Ironically, since I left my husband, my guaranteed safe sex partner, I've had the most amazing sex drive ever. No sex, mind you, but a desire for it, which is new and exciting. So that's fun except there are two problems. One, with whom will I have this great sex I'm so desiring? I'd have it with Mr. Karin, actually, since we're still trying to work things out, but he's the girl in this relationship right now and doesn't want to have sex until he feels safe and it's making love. Totally understandable. Whereas now I'm the guy sitting through dinner hoping he'll put out. Damn. The other problem is that I'm too afraid to have sex with anyone else. What if I catch something and bring it back to Mr. Karin? What if, a sometimes even greater concern, I'm too fat? What if Mr. Karin is the only person on the planet who could ever find me attractive enough to have sex with and be willing to overlook my many physical flaws? I mean, I'm no spring chicken and I'm overweight. When people fall in love in their 20s, the slow pull of gravity and the added pounds and wrinkles accumulate so slowly as to be almost unnoticeable by the one who loves you. It is precisely because they love you that they are willing to overlook your flaws, my flaws. How does this work at my age and weight?

Yet, I can't imagine spending my life with anyone but Mr. Karin. He's been in my life for twelve years. That's a big deal. That's a huge chunk of my history. It's significant to have someone close to you who knows your stuff and loves you anyway, who's seen you through your darkest days. It's a big deal to move throughout your life knowing that someone, at least one someone, has your back no matter what. There's a deep sense of security in that. Usually that felt cloying and claustrophobic to me, but somehow I'd like it back. I'd like it back, just different. Please don't ask me how. If I knew, I suppose I'd have it already.

So, I wanted this change, this new life. I made this change. I like this change. Yet, I still want the security of that deep love, that history. I want it all back, but only the good parts.