It's always been my personal opinion that getting involved with a married man is just wrong. And yet- sometimes it happens. Being the other woman in that situation just feels bad. I've been there, inadvertently.
I got involved with a man that I met online. He was everything I was looking for. Tall, handsome, professional, blue eyes. (Have I mentioned that I have a predilection for blue eyes?) He was a Yankee fan, though- I should have known, right there, that it would never work. He was also, unfortunately, married. When we met, he was "almost divorced." A year later, he was no closer to being divorced than he was when we met. Something was always in the way. He and his wife seemed to exist in this sick symbiotic relationship, fraught with constant drama. (I hate drama. Hatehatehate it.) His wife loved drama, and she loved nothing more than to manipulate the situation to suit her. She needed his help. Could he come over and do this, or that? She couldn't possibly sign anything, she was busy, she was working, the kids needed something. Anything. She had a headache. All the tension was giving her a migraine. And he would ride the drama wave. Looking back, I can see that he was still in love with her, and that they had always played games with each other. And probably still are, to this day.
When I ended it a year later, they were no closer to divorce than they had been when he and I met. Granted, I ended it 6-9 months later than I should have. He would have been a perfect fling, a diversion. I thought it was an entirely different type of relationship. Not only am I stupidly optimistic, I am also stupidly loyal.
Nevertheless, my heart was broken. One of my friends decided I needed to get out of my funk, and get over the guy, so she took me to Las Vegas. She is beautiful, with a great smile and a sparkling personality. She is one of those vivacious, fun women that men can't resist- they trip over themselves trying to get her attention. I'm not like that. In addition to NOT being a man magnet, I also can't drink very much- really, a lightweight. So here we were, in a town known for drinking, and partying, and gambling. And I brought books, my ipod with its geeky music and a journal, and prepared to work on my tan by the pool. My first morning there, I was reading in the sun, and suddenly this huge shadow covered me. I looked up, blinking, into this- stomach. This old man was standing over me, and immediately started pestering me with all kinds of questions. Turns out he was from Florida. Where was I from? Was I alone? He wanted to know if we could be "friends." He just wouldn't leave me alone. I finally packed up to leave, telling him I had plans with my friend- and he followed me. His stomach, which deserved it's own zip code, followed me too. Fortunately, he ran into another friend, and as he turned away to say hello, I was able to dart into the elevator. When I got back to the room, my friend was laughing her ass off, because our room overlooked the pool, and she was able to watch the whole sad situation. Later that night, I went down to the sports bar to watch the Giants. To get there, I had to pass by the Karaoke bar, where some really bad Tom-Jones-singing was happening. It was Mr. Stomach.
Good times.
I was able to sweet talk the guys who worked in the sports bar into putting the game I wanted to watch on one of the big screens, front and center. Men kept coming by to start up conversations. I was a bit irritated- I really wanted to just watch baseball. And drink my beer. I got comments like, "Wow! It's so cute that you like baseball." "Do you need me to explain to you what's going on here?" "I can't believe that a woman who looks like you actually watches sports." And eventually, Mr. Stomach came by, but I just ignored him and wounded, he eventually he wandered off in search of other prey.
The trip was really fun. My beautiful party-animal friend would come in about 6:00 a.m.- right as I was getting up. We would order room service, eat breakfast together, then she would go to bed and I would go to the pool, and read and write. And I would be able to watch baseball in the afternoon and evening.
After that trip, I was eventually able to move on. Sometimes all you need is a good friend who will listen to your whining, sympathize to a point, then kick you in the ass, give you a beer, and drive you to the Chicken Shack. That's what friends are for.
I got involved with a man that I met online. He was everything I was looking for. Tall, handsome, professional, blue eyes. (Have I mentioned that I have a predilection for blue eyes?) He was a Yankee fan, though- I should have known, right there, that it would never work. He was also, unfortunately, married. When we met, he was "almost divorced." A year later, he was no closer to being divorced than he was when we met. Something was always in the way. He and his wife seemed to exist in this sick symbiotic relationship, fraught with constant drama. (I hate drama. Hatehatehate it.) His wife loved drama, and she loved nothing more than to manipulate the situation to suit her. She needed his help. Could he come over and do this, or that? She couldn't possibly sign anything, she was busy, she was working, the kids needed something. Anything. She had a headache. All the tension was giving her a migraine. And he would ride the drama wave. Looking back, I can see that he was still in love with her, and that they had always played games with each other. And probably still are, to this day.
When I ended it a year later, they were no closer to divorce than they had been when he and I met. Granted, I ended it 6-9 months later than I should have. He would have been a perfect fling, a diversion. I thought it was an entirely different type of relationship. Not only am I stupidly optimistic, I am also stupidly loyal.
Nevertheless, my heart was broken. One of my friends decided I needed to get out of my funk, and get over the guy, so she took me to Las Vegas. She is beautiful, with a great smile and a sparkling personality. She is one of those vivacious, fun women that men can't resist- they trip over themselves trying to get her attention. I'm not like that. In addition to NOT being a man magnet, I also can't drink very much- really, a lightweight. So here we were, in a town known for drinking, and partying, and gambling. And I brought books, my ipod with its geeky music and a journal, and prepared to work on my tan by the pool. My first morning there, I was reading in the sun, and suddenly this huge shadow covered me. I looked up, blinking, into this- stomach. This old man was standing over me, and immediately started pestering me with all kinds of questions. Turns out he was from Florida. Where was I from? Was I alone? He wanted to know if we could be "friends." He just wouldn't leave me alone. I finally packed up to leave, telling him I had plans with my friend- and he followed me. His stomach, which deserved it's own zip code, followed me too. Fortunately, he ran into another friend, and as he turned away to say hello, I was able to dart into the elevator. When I got back to the room, my friend was laughing her ass off, because our room overlooked the pool, and she was able to watch the whole sad situation. Later that night, I went down to the sports bar to watch the Giants. To get there, I had to pass by the Karaoke bar, where some really bad Tom-Jones-singing was happening. It was Mr. Stomach.
Good times.
I was able to sweet talk the guys who worked in the sports bar into putting the game I wanted to watch on one of the big screens, front and center. Men kept coming by to start up conversations. I was a bit irritated- I really wanted to just watch baseball. And drink my beer. I got comments like, "Wow! It's so cute that you like baseball." "Do you need me to explain to you what's going on here?" "I can't believe that a woman who looks like you actually watches sports." And eventually, Mr. Stomach came by, but I just ignored him and wounded, he eventually he wandered off in search of other prey.
The trip was really fun. My beautiful party-animal friend would come in about 6:00 a.m.- right as I was getting up. We would order room service, eat breakfast together, then she would go to bed and I would go to the pool, and read and write. And I would be able to watch baseball in the afternoon and evening.
After that trip, I was eventually able to move on. Sometimes all you need is a good friend who will listen to your whining, sympathize to a point, then kick you in the ass, give you a beer, and drive you to the Chicken Shack. That's what friends are for.
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