Thirty-six and Single. Again.

Submitted by Lisa Steadman on May 9, 2007 - 2:04 pm

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Thirty-six and Single. Again.
By Julie Foreman

It was Memorial Day. Mr. Ex was driving us down the canyon to meet some friends in Beverly Hills for a light night of bowling. We had just been to an engagement party in the valley for a couple of our younger friends, Bill and Jill. Although still in their twenties, Bill and Jill had made the plunge: they had moved in together and were getting married. They seemed incredibly happy.

And for the first time in my life, I felt realistically hopeful about my romantic future. At 36, I finally felt I’d found “the right guy” and seeing others around me move in, get engaged, tie the knot, etc., I finally felt confident that I was ready to do the same. And Mr. Ex was my man.

We’d met in a workshop for writers and while I wasn’t all that interested in him to begin with, he persisted and finally we dated. And I fell in love with him. He was age appropriate (40), divorced ten years, as smart as me (finally!), funny, cute enough, and always called when he said he would. He appeared to be perfect. Yes, he had some serious money problems and a crazy, live-in, 42 year old brother but after a year, I was confident we could work through anything we set our collective mind to.

I laid back in the passenger seat and watched the drowsy shadows of the tree branches float up and over the windshield. The images reminded me of driving in Connecticut in the summertime, with the windows shut tight against the muggy and the buggy, the air conditioning blasting, creating a brilliant bubble of motorized climate control and THAT tripped my lazy, beer-influenced brain into remembering a trip Mr. Ex and I had talked about taking in the fall. To see the leaves turn – and wear sweaters! Tres romantique! He’d been worried about spending money but I’d assured him that I had a frequent flyer ticket and we could split the cost of his. This trip was for us.

“Do you still want to go east in the fall?” I asked, holding his free, non-driving hand between my legs.

“Yes” he said. “If I get that extra gig, I’ll have a little more money for rent and bills and other stuff.”

Money-shmoney!

I giggled playfully and kissed his hand, “Oh really? What kind of stuff?”

He looked at me, trying to figure out what I was getting at. “Pay off some bills?” he said again.

“Yes. And what else?” I teased.

“Um…take that class at UCLA?”

“Okay, but WHAT ELSE?” I said, laying over the gearshift, looking at him upside down.

It was from this angle that I saw it. In his face. He’d finally realized what the hell I was talking about. And it didn’t make him happy.

“I don’t know”, he said in that “Oh God, here we go” tone. “Move in together?”

A cold, sobering breeze ran through my body and a tingling sensation ran down my arm and into the hand that was still holding his, which now felt like a dead fish. I let go and we rode out the canyon in silence.

We pulled up in front of our friends’ apartment in Beverly Hills; our friends Lisa and Mike, who were very happy and lived together and were expecting to bowl with us. We sat in silence. Finally, he opened his now lipless mouth.

“Do you want to talk about this before we go inside?” he asked, annoyed by the inconvenience of it all.

“Yes” I said, trying to keep my voice low.

More silence followed. I said nothing for approximately 30 seconds. Then I had to jump in.

“I thought…” I choked, “that we both wanted the same thing, but…but clearly, (horrible realization kicking in full force)…we don’t”. Now I was sobbing.

“I…I, I don’t know” was all he could muster.

What? You don’t know?! Then I vocalized. Loudly.

“You don’t know after a year together how you feel about me?”

Silence. Oh God.

“I don’t know…” he said again. He was obviously frustrated by his inability to speak and at being put on the spot. I mean, it really sucks when your girlfriend wants to know if you love her, right here, right now, without any warning.

“I don’t know anything, I just know…I love you a lot!” he finally blurted.

Aren’t you supposed to be a writer?

We didn’t bowl that night. Instead, we drove back to my apartment in silence. Once inside, I was confronted with more “I don’t knows”. I finally couldn’t look at him anymore and told him to go home and think about what the fuck he DID know (for Christ’s sake!) and that I would do the same.

But there really wasn’t much to think about. My all too successful career as a serial monogamist had taught me that when a grown man says “I don’t know”, he’s usually just stalling to find a nicer way to say “no”. I had clearly been kidding myself. Even though we’d talked about it on our anniversary (a month ago!!), it was undeniable. He didn’t want to move in with me. He wasn’t even thinking about it. And he probably had no intention of marrying me either. At least not in this decade.

Completely devastated, I hunkered down to grieve.

Three days and two boxes of tissue later, (family size, with lotion) Mr. Ex called. He sounded peppy and enlightened over the cell phone. He wanted to know if I was up for coffee. He was ready to talk. A dim ray of mucussy light appeared at the end of my tunnel of tears. I was ready, too

We met at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in Beverly Hills. Mr. Ex had always felt it was less of an environmentally offensive, corporate eye-sore than Starbuck’s. Maybe because there’s a leaf in the logo. From there we walked into a quiet residential neighborhood, past rows of quaint duplexes. And he finally talked.

He said he’d thought a lot about everything and felt my position was completely valid. But after the devastating collapse of his marriage (did I say it was a decade ago), he was afraid; afraid of getting hurt, afraid of hurting me. I said nothing. He talked of needing more time but that he definitely DID NOT WANT TO BREAK UP. I softened a little inside. This was hard for him. He said that there were other things, smaller issues he felt he needed to address. Which he did. Again, even though I thought his smaller issues were lame, I said nothing.

Note to self: There is so much power in silence.

I waited for him to finish. Now it was my turn.

I told him that over the last few days, I’d realized how much of my adult life I’d spent avoiding growing up. How I had managed to not get married to more than a couple of willing participants, opting instead, to tread water in twenty-something style relationships that I knew had no future. But something in me had changed. What had once seemed safe and controllable now felt stale and tiresome. I was bored with “yours and mine” and I wanted to get into the business of “us”. I was ready to share my life with someone. I was ready to grow up.

“Okay…” he said, trying to hear me.

“So, I’ve decided to move on.”

Wait, what?

“Move on?” he said, shocked.

“Yes.” I said.

Silence. This time the Oh God was his.

“I’m an amazing girlfriend, a great friend and certainly wife material. Don’t you think I deserve to be with someone who wants to build a life with me? If that’s what I want?” I asked him.

“Of course.” He could barely speak.

It felt good. Not because I knew he was hurt by my decision but because I was finally taking care of me. For the first time in my life, I had entered the scene without a clue. I’d had no idea if he was going to want to break up or move in or get married or what. It had finally become clear to me, at 36, that knowing what he was going to do or say didn’t matter. Like most women, I’d spent much of my past analyzing the men in my life. What did He mean by that? Why is He so scared? What’s really going on in that little head of His? I used to think that if I could answer these questions, figure Him out, I could make it work. This time was different. This time I’d stopped thinking about whatever the hell he wanted and got busy with figuring out what I WANTED.

And I wanted a man who knew he wanted me.

We sat on the walkway steps of somebody’s house and talked. And cried and hugged. He said I WAS an amazing girlfriend and that he was sorry. I told him I loved him and that I wasn’t mad at him. (Yet) I’d picked him, after all. He was still the same guy. I was the one who’d changed.

As I drove to meet Lisa for post break-up shopping, I felt exhausted but somehow light. It was ultimately clear. I finally knew what I wanted. And that felt great. Maybe that’s the good part about being 36 and single. Again.

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