Yesterday evening I went out to dinner with my husband. Nothing unusual in that, I suppose. Except that we’ve been separated these last two years. In fact, that’s when I started this blog – November 2017. It was supposed to serve as a kind of therapy for my battered heart. And, if my mellowed feelings of late are anything to go by – with all the acrimony, hurt, bitterness and sorrow now dissolved into fondness, renewed appreciation and rekindled love of a different kind – then I’d say the blog-therapy has worked. Yep, I’d highly recommend it to any other wounded souls.
Errant Hubby. The Philosopher. The Errant Philosopher. Hubby No 2 …
Those are some of the epithets I’ve used over the past two years in various blog posts. For the man himself. The man I was once so crazy about, I lost my appetite and a fair amount of weight over him – something I couldn’t really afford to do, already being frail in the flesh-and-bones department. But it was worth it. He was worth it. I even wrote an entire novel dedicated to him. No, not to him, about him. Thirteen States of Being, it was called. Most of the states were bad, needless to say, due to my insecure love and demented passion making me rather wobbly-kneed and ill. Well, wobbly in general. According to the Philosopher.
In my novel, he was called the Monster. Which he really was, at the worst of times. Or maybe at the most of times. Hmm. (Memory is as fickle as love itself.) But then again, according to him I wasn’t exactly a sweet camellia myself. Nor a bundle of laughs. Hardly surprising, considering I was still trying to come to terms with the end of my first marriage and being a single mum, not to mention the stress of running a brand new school. But the Monster did not appear to be aware of any of these apparently irrelevant details. I was just a wobbly woman, full stop. Aren’t we all wobbly when it comes to the first throes of falling in love?
However, I am definitely NOT falling in love again, to quote from the famous Marlene Dietrich song. Falling in love is, quite frankly, exhausting. Never mind that it’s also deliciously fun and heady and narcotic and all the rest. It’s EXHAUSTING above all else. And right now, to be boringly frank, I prefer the calm, deepening rapport that Hubby No. 2 and I are developing. We don’t live together anymore (well, duh – we’re separated); we only see each other every now and then, and whenever we do, it’s never stale. It’s always nice. Yes, nice. Such an apt word. It really is nice, spending an entire evening with ex-hubby, who I am no longer demented about. So much so …
I woke up with a smile on my face this morning, recalling our cosy evening last night, without all the complications of throbbing desire and thumping heart and sweaty palms – you know, all that wretched ‘in-love’ business that has an annoying habit of getting in the way. If this is love again, I thought to myself as I smiled at the dawn lustre that teased the treetops from my bedroom window, then it’s a FAR easier brand! It’s lonelier as well, of course, because most of the time we’re not together – but hey, I guess that’s part of the bargain. By the very virtue of not being together, it makes this new relationship of ours so much calmer, easier, nicer. It’s easier to leave desire elsewhere. Like in a book. If ever I feel nostalgic for those bad old passionate days, with all the tears and pain and joy and hopes and fears they brought along with them – all I have to do is turn to the pages of Thirteen States of Being. In fact, I think I’ll publish it one day, just to embarrass a few people. Hah!
Falling in love again
Never wanted to
What am I to do?
Can’t help it
I never wanted to, and certainly never expected to, but I did. I fell in love again with lightning speed after the break-up of my first marriage. It was totally out of my control, so what was I to do? Marlene, I understand you entirely! I just couldn’t help it.
Now, twenty-plus years later, I can help it. My monster has metamorphosed into not a bad man all round – certainly not of monster proportions anymore. But I have no intention of falling in love with him all over again, and neither, I assume, does he with me. And yet – ah, here’s the rub – if ever he moved away from Krakow, or – God forbid – if he fell into the Vistula river late one night while staggering home from the Irish pub after one too many (his eyesight is exceedingly bad), then I’d …
No. I don’t even want to think about it. I lost him once, two years ago, and since then we’ve been working on finding each other again – something that was far from easy at first, but now seems to be working better and better. So to lose him all over again through a mere unfortunate accident? It just wouldn’t be fair. I won’t accept that.
Falling in love again …
Not quite, but not far off. Just on a parallel plane of existence. To quote from the penultimate chapter of my novel:
Our ending has finally ended, and our beginning has just begun.