Thursday, February 4, 2010

Living in Hope, Darn It.

But just how did you get here, Sandwitch; that’s what you’re asking, right?

Excellent question. Wish I could answer it. If I were to guess, I’d say it was a combination of poor judgment, fate, more poor judgment, a bit of luck, some hard work, some slacking off, and ultimately, even more poor judgment.

Still, you may be thinking, even at that, just how the &*(%@#!!! did you get here, exactly here, in this spot you are in?

In a word: hope. A lifetime of it.

When I was a child, I used to hope that I’d become a productive, nice, fun adult. This was based on watching my relatives interact with each other and with the world.

“Crap, this isn’t for me,” I used to muse, while ducking. “I would prefer to be fun and productive.”

When I became an adult, I continued to hope. I attended university, joined clubs, started a career, married the first guy who asked (I did say poor judgment, didn’t I?), and above all retained a spirit of adventure. Thus the motorcycle.

Soon, though, I became melancholy. The career sucked, the marriage sucked, I was still ducking my relatives and I had to sell the motorcycle. It was Winnipeg, after all. An enclosed vehicle with a heater was a much wiser option.

Yet hope dawned. I ditched the sucky parts and hit restart. Another university, another career, another marriage. Did I mention world travel? One, two children. And it was working! The career was great! The relatives became great, due to firm distancing and lines drawn in the sand! The marriage seemed great! The babies were babies!

Then, a fork in the road, one that was deceptive and disarming. Pretty much out-of-the-blue, husband No. 2 said he wanted to move to Kookytown. It would mean great things for him and his career. I, in the spirit of adventure and because I believed in the ethos of “us” and wanted to be nice to him (see above), did one of the worst things I could have from the perspective of self-preservation. I agreed to move.

Quit my job, sold our house, abandoned the family cottage to the relatives, and sallied forth, toddlers and all, to a new place, just like that.

Where I knew no one. Where I had no job. Where unbeknownst to me, my husband met his new girlfriend, leading him to abruptly announce one day that he didn’t want to live with me or our children anymore. So much for that “all for one” ethos.

And where, after extensive and extraordinarily expensive consultation with the best lawyer in Kookytown, I made the decision to stay in Kookytown, because it would be best for my children, I believed.

Leaving town, as inviting as it seemed, would pretty much deny them a father. I figured a crappy, disloyal father was still better than none.

There’s that “nice” thing again.

The Dark Ages: a quite lengthy period of melancholy. Everything sucked. I had no career, no husband, no relatives to duck. The spirit of adventure, however, could not be eliminated. Dimmed of course, really, quite a bit dimmed. But not totally gone, and thus, the dating began.

To Be ContinuedDating: Who knew there’d be so very many frogs to kiss?

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