X’s and Oh-Oh-Orgasms

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I had me a boy, he said he was a man
I showed him all the things he refused to understand
Whoa, and then He let ME go…

The first time I had sex after my marriage was over I felt like sending a Certified Letter to my X. I had a great need to tell him what a lazy piece of shit he really was. It was almost laughable really. I married youngish.. I guess I had set the bar pretty low. And even with my low expectations I was still usually disappointed. The X wasn’t to worried about my ‘oh-oh-oh’s’… But I didn’t dwell. I focused on other things. I didn’t know any different. I thought it was my fault.

But now- My divorce helped me realize how important it is to have Great Sex. That I didn’t deserve anything less. Sex isn’t just for men.. And by ignoring that I did myself a great disservice. 15 years of disservice. I ignored one of the most obvious facts during my marriage…

If your husband isn’t having sex with you it’s because he’s having sex with someone else. Your Oh-oh-orgasm is being provided elsewhere. Bottom line. Don’t tell yourself that it’s just because he’s stressed. Or that it’s his back hurting. Or it’s because the laundry room is messy.. The house isn’t clean. He’s had to much to drink again. You don’t talk to him respectfully enough. You spend to much money. He couldn’t find clean underwear. He has to work. (All excuses I heard…among others) Listen carefully people. If your spouse doesn’t want to screw you..they are screwing someone else. Period. End of story. Truth.

The lack of intimacy in my marriage was painful. And embarrassing. I kept it a secret. I mean every woman I talked to complained about how their husband always wanted to have sex with them. I would nod and smile in understanding..while secretly wondering how that must feel. It sounded so nice to me.. These women weren’t perfect. I had seen their laundry rooms! But their husbands still cared enough about them to want them to ‘oh’..often

What if I hadn’t gotten divorced? What if I had a received my wish (at the time) and stayed married? So maybe what my Certified Letter to my X should say is Thank You! And let me tell you…this would be the only thank you he would ever receive from me. And I might add in a little Congrats for his ‘upgrade’…I’m pretty sure she is getting what she deserves…

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My Ex’s and Oh-Oh-Oh’s they haunt me

Like ghosts they want me to have’em all
They won’t let go…
Ex’s and oh’s

 

yoga…or yoga pants

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So I’m trying something new..at the urging of my friend. One of my best divorced friends. That’s what single divorced women end up doing. Stuff together so you’re not alone. She came up with the idea of enrolling in a beginners Yoga class. New Year New You crap we fall for every year. She’s the one always searching for terrific things we could be doing..that neither of us will want to do in the end. We will be to tired..broke..or lazy. But she seems to enjoy this ‘let’s try this..’ game. And I start to feel like an asshole for always saying no. So how bad can Yoga be? I mean one Pro right off the bat is it gives my a legitimate reason to own my Yoga pants. Con- no shoes.. But anyway- she registered us online and I prepared myself mentally for Yoga 101. (Knowing full well that in reality on the first  night of said Yoga I wouldn’t want to go. I would be hoping for a sick kid..or sudden diarrhea..) But the first night came with no crisis in sight. I drug my feet..waited for her to back out..but nothing. So off to Yoga we go. Sigh.

We arrived at the ‘studio’ (aka strip mall with shitty parking) and paid $48 for our 4 classes. We were late (my fault of course) and were forced to parade in front of a roomful of women and 2 token men (1 old guy who’s pants are to short and 1 guy with his Asian girlfriend. Has anyone else noticed how cool and beautiful Asian girlfriends are? Like us regular middle aged divorced women don’t have enough competition) to the front of the room. Not where you want to sit in beginning Yoga. I am right in front of a statue of some weird Chinese Elephant thing. I can’t really see the teacher.. But everyone can see me. And my ass. There are mats and pillows..and blocks and straps. Accessories. Instructions. Our instructor is a lovely woman with a flowery top and pleasant reassuring voice. I don’t hear her name. But her assistants name is Luna. I zone right in on that interesting tidbit. Because of course if someone names you Luna you will work in the Yoga industry. It’s destiny.

Yoga is supposed to be relaxing. Enlightening. Exercise. You still your mind and learn self…something. I know right away I’m out of my league. I spy on the people around me instead of listening to my breathing. I remember I don’t like most people’s naked feet to be near me. Ever. My pants feel tight. I forgot my hair tie. My favorite part by far is when we just lay on our mat with the lights dimmed. My second favorite part is the end. I do find I am good at the child’s pose. My hips are not flexible (probably due to the lack of sex in my life..or maybe because I’m over 40. Or is that redundant?) It becomes evident that I really need to pee. But disturbing class seems a bad idea. I don’t think Luna would like it. I focus on the elephant and wish I could see the clock.

I mean there are obviously 2 types of women. Women who like Yoga..and women who like Yoga pants. I think it’s obvious which one I am. (However–side note–I do have a great idea about Yoga classes that start with everyone drinking a big glass of wine. WINE YOGA. My idea. Called it.) When I was in counseling during my divorce a few years ago my therapist recommended I try Yoga. I went once and cried through the entire class. Being quiet with yourself during absolute heartbreaking misery not a good idea. Especially in dim lighting with incense burning. *Consider yourself warned.*

But wearing the pants. That’s something I’m good at….

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Snow Day….Go Day….

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Happy Snow Day…Or Go Day as I not so enthusiastically call the days my kids leave to stay at the X’s. Every other Wednesday/Thursday…1st and 3rd weekends..a complicated array of holidays and vacations. Even after all this time it totally pisses me off. Maybe not for the same reasons it used to. My reasons- like my divorce- have evolved. But what bothers me the most at this point is probably my kids constant inconvenience.

Look at today for example. It was a Snow Day! How great is that. A day to wear Snow Boots!  Sledding and sleeping and snacking. Since I work at the schools I was home too. My daughter was invited to a friends house mid-afternoon..what fun! On the drive over she blurted out–“Mom..I’m supposed to be going to dads tonight. I forgot! I’m not packed.” I assured her that I would take care of things and told her to have fun. But you know what. I’m pissed. For her. For all 3 of them.

How many adults would be ok with dragging their shit back and forth between two different houses? Suitcases..laundry..book bags..a Saxophone. Constantly balancing two different worlds. NOT BY ANY CHOICE OF THEIR OWN. It must be exhausting. It is exhausting. Leaving behind pets and teddy bears. Favorite pillows and video games. Wondering which house you left your football jersey at. Constantly forgetting something- because you know…you’re a kid. Where’s my laptop charger? I can’t find my Star Wars t-shirt! I only have one shoe…the other one must be at dads! I’m sick- I don’t want to go-can’t I please stay home mom? The constant “where am I this weekend?” question. If I were them I would be furious. Hell, I am furious. I am pretty sure they will NEVER thank us for this carefully constructed schedule that is their childhood. As a parent I feel ashamed…

One of my many regrets during my divorce is letting myself be bullied into mid-week visits by my X and his lawyers (yes there was an S on the end of that..) I let lawyers and a man who cheated on me for years convince me that any Judge would grant him 50/50 custody (or more..) if I pushed my luck. The X deserved to see his kids, right? Not at their convenience but at his. Midweek visits in MY OPINION are wildly inconvenient and intrusive to my children’s lives. It’s chaotic. They don’t like it.(And that doesn’t mean they don’t love their father..because they do..but that’s not really the point.) The kids resent it. But they have no choice. And I feel pissed…and sorry…and guilty. No matter what happened or whose fault it was..I can tell you who is paying the price. And I’m not talking about me…

Hello sexy…

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Well hello 2017! I’m so glad your here! New Year-New Me. And a new us… Maybe.

I have a confession though. I have trust issues. Major trust issues. So while I want to embrace you with an open heart and open mind…I’m struggling a bit. 2016 was kind of an asshole. I didn’t love him…and apparently the feeling was mutual. And it would appear I’m not the only one who didn’t love ’16. It was an epidemic. Everyone was ready to kick him  to the curb. What a disappointment. Another bad break-up in the books. It’s time to move on.

And here you are 2017! Fresh. New. Innocent. Exciting… We all know the first few months of a relationship are the best. It’s all fun and not much work… Just making sure your legs are shaved and that you are wearing your most flattering jeans. Nothing to serious. We are spending all of our free time getting to know each other…over a glass of Cupcake Moscato. We still think everything about each other is charming. We both have our A game on. You are full of optimism. And so am I! Blinded by the potential. It’s love at first sight, right?

But guess what. I’m skeptical. 2016 is fresh in my mind. Of course I will never forget 2010 and 2011 who participated equally in my divorce devastation. I like to think of 2010 as the year of the homewrecker and 2011 as the year of the X-respectively.  And 2012-2015 who can’t be easily disregard. They were definitely not the easiest dates in my calendar-but they did have some fun times. But even though they weren’t perfect-at least they were rebuilding years. I can see their point. It takes some time to get things going in the right direction. Right? But come on 2016…you were just an asshole for no reason.

But you know what?  I’m ready. Ready for a new relationship. I’m ready for change. A new start. Something honest and new. And 2017…so far your looking pretty sexy.👠

 

 

Divorce Shoes….

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My divorce shoes… I had divorce shoes. I still do! They were heels. After my X moved out I was devastated. It took me months to even begin to wrap my head around what was happening. As I began to fight my way out of the fog… I discovered my divorce shoes. I don’t remember how it happened- but it might be one of the all time hands down best accidental discoveries of my entire life. I wore high heels. Everywhere. Black ones, blue ones, even red. Wedges. Boots. Fancy ones. All kinds! No discrimination here. If they were heels I wore them. Leopard print and patent leather. Sparkly and suede. Some were expensive…most were not. I remember seeing a friend one time who mentioned that another friend had seen me at the grocery store….’WEARING HEELS.’ Yes- my shoes were that noteworthy. They were receiving third party sightings.

Divorce is always hard. When your husband leaves you for his lawyer girlfriend…brutal. I felt the rejection deeply. It hurt. I felt fat and frumpy and pathetic. I was invisible. My shoes made me feel better. They were one high heeled step in the right direction. They helped revive that tiny spark of pride buried deep inside. I wore those shoes with determination. The worse I felt the higher they got. No more house wife uniform of sweat pants and sketchers. No way… This chic was wearing heels to Walmart! At one point I would have ran a friggen marathon in those shoes. I actually wore them around my house. For no reason. By myself.  On Sunday afternoons. I held my head high and got dressed with purpose. No more slouchy comfortable shoes for me. My life was no longer comfortable…and I had the shoes to prove it. By God if I can survive a divorce with 3 kids- I can wear 3 inch heels at the f***ing mall. Bring it. Comfort isn’t always the most important thing- sometimes its survival- in whatever form that may be.

Divorce shoes…I love you. You were always there for me…