2009 April | Late Bloomer Bride

Getting married over age 40 poses some very interesting dilemmas. Some of them are comical, and some of them are just plain weird. For instance, a very interesting little thing happened when Husband and I moved in together. The day the movers came to get my stuff (out of my 2,500 square foot house in which I had been living by myself), I realized that Husband actually had stuff, too. And, my stuff would be touching his stuff. Until that day, I do believe it never dawned on me that any of his stuff would be coming with him. Weird, huh?

Anyway, the dilemma really resides with this little fact: being over 40 means ya know what you like. And, ya know what you don’t like. That goes especially for interior design. And, unfortunately, Husband and I are on opposites sides of the spectrum when it comes to decorating and architecture. (I, of course, knew this when I met him, but see stuff reference above.)

The first time our furniture met, it was not pretty. I mean not pretty as in the “before” pictures of a home make-over. Picture France/Italy (charming cottage, not Versailles) crossed with Jamestown (the starving, middle of winter Jamestown where they boiled their belts for food.) Guess who was France/Italy?

I am sure Husband would move right into Monticello if I’d let him. (Given it’s 10 miles away this is actually a possibility. Until the police show up.) I, on the other hand, would probably never leave George Clooney’s Lake Como home if I was ever invited. He needn’t even be there. (No, really.) I’d just be there for the architecture.

Anyway, given my rich delusional fantasy life, I have gone ahead and pretended I’m in Italy by collecting little paintings and furniture that would fit in nicely with George’s life. (A grown woman is always prepared for the unexpected invitation.) Husband, in the meantime, went ahead and did his own throw it together interior decorating thing.

But, being the more mature bride, I have come up with a solution. We’re starting over. Which means I get to go s-h-o-p-p-i-n-g. (You can see my smiling, can’t you?) Husband has been alerted, though not necessarily invited. I promised not to bring home George Clooney anything modern or too Louis the XIV. He has promised not to hate everything. See? Compromise!

The other night I managed to convince Husband to meet me out for dinner. He answered in his usual way: Why don’t we you just pick up sushi? And, then serve me and clean up afterward?

No.

I wanted to be served.

(Note to Husbands: Picking up ready-made food is not the same as a waitron taking one’s order and laying it in front of you with no threat of having to do dishes afterward. Unless you forget your wallet. And, then you’re gonna be elbow deep in sudsy water. Not us.)

So, Husband met me at the Indian restaurant across the street. I pulled in. Husband was already outside waiting. How romantic, I thought. He was waaaaiting for me.

He waved me over. Then, he pointed down to the empty parking space next to him. All that time he was waiting for me to pull in and park next to him.

Why? Because, have I mentioned that Husband LuuuUuuuUuuuvs his car? And, my parking next to him guarantees no one else will. Heaven forbid someone might not LuuuUuuuUuuuv his car and “ding” it.

So much for the I-was-pining-for-you-and-couldn’t-wait-til-you-got-here-and-how-could-I-let-you-enter-the-building-without-me-cuz-George Clooney-someone-might-think-you-were-single. Noooooo. His car might get bruised.

My answer to his finger pointing, as I pulled in next to him? Thanks, Husband. You just gave me my next blog post. By the way, we’re going out for dinner all week.

Believe it or not, this was actually a revelation to me sometime in the first year of marriage.

I recognize that getting married instantly changes a lot of things, no matter the age. But, when you get married for the first time over age 40, you have about 20 years of developing what constitutes a relationship for you. For 20 years, my main companions were girlfriends and friends who were men (with a boyfriend thrown in there now and again).

This means my relationship communication style evolved into — how shall I put it? — one that actually includes talking.

My male friends never mentioned that this talking thing was an issue. (But, maybe, all along they were thinking why is she still talking about shoes, and how do I make it stop?)

Husband, on the other hand, had 20 years of– how shall I put it? – being a man. This involved (and still involves) doing manly things and talking about manly things (read: not talking that much).

I now spend a great deal of time living with another human being who does not respond at all like my girlfriends and sometimes doesn’t respond at all. Surprise! Certain subjects do not call to him. For instance, Husband is not interested in:

Hearing anything about shopping – ever
Rehashing what happened at the party
The color of anything
If this makes me look fat
My family’s dynamics (which is usually about how someone mis-communicated something)
Why he doesn’t talk more

I wonder what my girlfriends are up to? Probably shopping, rehashing a party where they saw cute shoes in a cute color on someone who just really shouldn’t have worn that, which they would share with their cousin if only they were still talking to her.

And, my all-time favorite, in honor of my mother’s birthday today:

“Why is it that people get married?
Because we need a witness to our lives.
There’s a billion people on the planet.
What does any one life really mean?
But in a marriage, you’re promising to care about everything…
The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things,
All of it… all the time, every day.
You’re saying “Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it.
Your life will not go unwitnessed – because I will be your witness.”
Wife in the movie, “Shall We Dance?” 2004

I have been asked repeatedly by both men and women how I ended up an LBB. They don’t always buy the answer that I’m just a “late bloomer.” I don’t think they are necessarily saying how-could-someone-like-you-not-be-snatched-up, either. Cuz really, I’m an ordinary person. But, rather they wonder how could any woman not meet someone they wanted to marry before age 40.

Reason one: I was always interested in true love. But, never really desperate to get married. Maybe that was stamped on my forehead?

Reason two: I did meet two men I wanted to marry. But, they didn’t want to marry me. I am embarrassed to admit that, at times, I prayed, schemed, scratched and clawed, and downright screamed WHY DON’T YOU WANT TO MARRY ME? to at least one of them. But, what’s that song lyric? Thank God for unanswered prayers.

But, in the spirit of honesty, those are not the real reason.

The truth is I wasted more than a decade on the wrong guy(s).

And, guys have a code. Thou shall not covet thy friends loot. Well, they might covet. But, they aren’t asking it out.

So, for 11.6 years (I counted because I just like to torture myself), I was unavailable to the right guy. Intead, I was with the following men: J, T, M, C, J, K , R and T. (Not all at once. One at a time. I’m not that good.)

J. was the college boyfriend. Two years. Gone. But, that’s the way it is supposed to be, right?

A little while later, I expended two years with T. We were best friends, and it really should have just stayed that way.

I spent 6 months with M. (Sigh.) Former male model and windsurfing champion. Lust is a powerful – and sometimes destructive — thing.

C. was about 4 months. But he didn’t show up for dinner one night. Turns out he was meant to run away with (female) J. to Las Vegas and get married. (Remember, I promised to tell you the truth.) But, it’s all good. They were supposed to be together.

Then, I was with J., a pathological liar, who couldn’t help himself. He also married the next woman after me. In fact, it was the next morning after our last date. My friend Y — who called to let me know — can attest to that fact.

Spent 2 years with K. Nice guy. I just wasn’t into NASCAR.

R. was the biggest mistake. Wasted about 3 years if you include the long, slow, climb out of the black hole he threw me into. (I promised to tell the truth, not always be big about it.)

And, there were others. The usual three to four month dating periods with various playmates of whom, today, I could not pick out of a police line-up. (Sorry.)

So, why do I tell you all this? Because

1 – be thankful you did not end up with your alphabet soup, and

2 – let go when you know it’s not right. Even today. Goodbye is a second chance.

For every goodbye you do not say when you really, really know should, you inch your way closer to LBB status. It’s not bad to be an LBB. It’s just, well, later. And, wants to wait?

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