A Novel Idea

Writing a novel seems like such a demanding and complex undertaking, I've never seriously considered doing it. Where does a novelist start? How do you get from A to Z in an artful, or even interesting, way? How can you sustain interest in something for so long for both the reader and the writer? How can you make the daily commitment of breathing life into your novel without eventually getting bored and just shoving it in a drawer, never to see the light of day again? I have anxiety even making the commitment to watch a new tv show every week, much less taking on the daunting task of creating a novel.

I've come to believe that making a marriage or any long-term relationship work is as difficult as writing a novel. Admittedly, I haven't been successful at either one, which, I realize, makes me sound like I'm full of shit. And maybe I am. (As if *that's* ever stopped me from talking out of my ass.) If I *had* known marriage would be as hard and as complicated as writing a novel, I don't know if I would have actually gotten married. At the very least, I would have given the idea of marriage much more thought than the brief consideration that I did. Truth be told, my marriage was as ill-considered as the plot to a movie about high school cheerleaders trying to raise money by having a carwash.

If marriage is similar to writing a novel, then divorce is stopping in the middle and giving up on it. Or, as in my case, throwing the 400-page unfinished manuscript in the fireplace and burning the only copy of a story featuring two main characters I no longer liked. One of the most difficult aspects of writing a novel is going back and ruthlessly revising a story that isn't quite working. As my novelist friends have shared, it's brutal having to revise your work, because it's often the most cherished stuff you've written that needs to be cut. I think any long-term marriage needs that brutal, but necessary, revision in order to survive. Even then, the revision isn't always enough to make it worthwhile.  

I've heard that one of the big psychological "tricks" to successfully tackling a gigantic project like a novel, is to have a general idea of what you want to accomplish, but to be okay with not knowing exactly how you'll do it, and believing that you can get there by writing one page at a time. Serial double-digit novelist Orson Scott Card once said, "You can't write a novel all at once, any more than you can swallow a whale in one gulp. You do have to break it up into smaller chunks."

And that's how I'm trying to reframe my approach to long-term relationships. Instead of being hung up on whether I'm in a relationship that has the stuff to survive the next 30 years, I'm breaking it down into bite-sized pieces by looking at what I want and need in a relationship over the next year and the next five years. I'm banking on the idea that by paying close attention to the now and the soon, I will be in the best position to nurture a satisfying relationship that can survive merciless revision, as well as my own skittishness about marriage.

I don't know if that will work, but I do know that I will write a novel before I get married again. I can also state with equal certainty, I will be appointed the U.S. Ambassador to Afghanistan before I get married again. That's not to say I won't write a novel. I may, in fact, write one. I just won't be married when I do it.

How I Finally Made Peace With My Big Ass

I have a long-term relationship that has haunted me ever since I was a teenager. It's a love-hate relationship that has cast a long shadow over my dating history and has affected other parts of my life too. I am referring to my formerly ambivalent, often negative relationship with my body.

Since one of my longtime hobbies seems to be torturing myself, I would often compare my body to women who were born with a classic model physique: tall and statuesque, with long slender legs. With a short and stocky natural build, I *always* came up short in my impossible comparison with the classic tall, thin woman. Even though I liked certain things about my body -- my strong arms, for example -- I almost always felt ashamed of my curves, which I thought were too "excessive."  Too much ass and thigh, not enough leg.

My ass, in particular, was a near-constant source of embarrassment to me. It's always been "too much," sticking out and making a spectacle of itself like a well meaning, but mortifying aunt, who can't stop flirting with anyone and everyone, even when she's at church. I was so neurotic about it, I sometimes felt the urge to back out of a room, because I didn't want my ass -- exasperating in its excessive size and emphatically round shape -- to be the last thing people would see as I left the room.

As I got older, I became frustrated that no restrictive diet or amount of exercise could "sculpt" me into the body I thought I wanted, the body I assumed was automatically attractive to all men. I would occasionally hear that men were physically attracted to lots of different female body types, even though popular culture rarely reflects that idea. While intellectually I accepted that idea as fact, deep down emotionally, I never really believed it. I thought that any man would have his own specific body-type preferences, but in the event that a tall, thin model showed up in his life (because, you know, *that* happens all the time), he would automatically choose her, no matter what his "real-life" preference might be.

A few years ago, I had a realization that galloped into my head and finally put to rest my neurotic thoughts about my body (well, *most* of my neurotic thoughts). It was prompted by my lifelong love of horses, an obsession of mine for as long as I can remember. As a typical horse-crazy girl, I read everything I could about horses, drew them all the time, and rode whenever I had the chance. Even though I developed a great love for Thoroughbred race horses in particular, I have many favorite breeds of horse, not just Thoroughbreds. I love Clydesdales, those big draft horses strong enough to pull a plow through rock-hard ground, as well as the Icelandic horse, a small, but sturdy breed that thrives in the harsh climate of Iceland. I would not want the Clydesdale or the Icelandic horse to look more like the tall, statuesque Thoroughbred with skinny legs. I love the way they look just as they are.

And that's when I realized if *I* were a horse, I would be an Icelandic horse. I come from small, sturdy Scandinavian stock, who survived long cold winters, avalanches, wild moose, and bland food. I am not a Thoroughbred, but I am a small, beautiful Icelandic horse. With a big ass. And that's ok.

The Awkweirdness of DAD

"If anything ever happened to [my husband], I would have to date the UPS man--someone who came to my door," said my childhood friend thinking about the "unthinkable" prospect of trying to date again in the middle of middle age. I laughed, recognizing my own similar reaction right after my marriage imploded. The idea of going out into the world to actively look for someone to date who might turn out to be "for keeps," seemed as unlikely and overwhelming a prospect as the idea that any of those Kardashian princesses would be able to remain married to the same guy for any significant length of time. My house plants have lasted longer than their relationships.

Dating again after the Rumpelstiltskin nap of a long marriage is "awkweird," both awkward and weird at the same time. Humbling as well. After decades of believing my dating days were over and behind me, it's been surreal to jump in again. I am struck by the similarity of my experience to the blind man who, after years of living without the use of his eyes, miraculously gets his sight back. While the benefits of regaining one's sight are obvious to those of us who see, the transition to using your eyes to help navigate the world is almost always not smooth. Apparently, you have to retrain your brain to incorporate the data you receive from your eyes with the data from your other senses. It takes time and patience to readjust to your new reality.

And so it is with DAD (dating after divorce). As you learn to navigate the world of dating again, the real trick is not understanding the external changes in the dating scene. It's recognizing how *you've* changed, how your marriage changed you. Like the once-blind person struggling to make sense of the visual static in his brain, I work at recognizing my emotional static and deciphering what it really means.

Putting Myself in Their Shoes

I do not think of myself as the stereotypical shoe-obsessed female. I favor comfort over style (always). I do not own any shoes more than three inches in height. Call me overly practical, but I think shoes should be an aid to ambulation, not an obstacle. Naturally, I do not own a pair of Louboutins or Manolo Blahniks, the iconic high-fashion brand of shoe over which Sex and the City's Carrie waxed rhapsodic. In fact, I would be perfectly content to wear the same pair of comfortable black heels to work every day. Suffice to say, if I were the daughter of Imelda Marcos, I would be a huge disappointment to her.

So, it surprised me to discover that I own 41 pairs of shoes. I counted. I don’t know how that could have happened, but over the years, I’ve accumulated 41 pairs of shoes that I use on occasion (summer sandals, winter boots, hiking shoes, swimming shoes, work heels, special occasion heels, swing dancing shoes, riding boots, casual shoes, and running shoes). Some, more; many others, less. Some of these shoes I bought for a particular reason, while others were the result of being a cute pair of shoes on sale that I purchased on impulse. I didn’t need them, nor would I have bought them at full price, but the opportunity was there and I took it.

Men seem to have this same casual attitude about sex. Not all men, of course. Just most -- at least at some point in their lives. Young men often have this "if the opportunity presents itself, take it" attitude about sex. They’re not looking for a wife, or even, a girlfriend. It’s just sex. And many men just out of a long-term relationship have this casual mindset too.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not comparing the fabulous epic goddesses that we women are to something as mundane as shoes. No, no, no! I’m comparing men’s occasionally casual approach to dating to my casual approach to footwear. When I bought those cute pink suede clogs on sale, I wasn’t buying them as if they would be my *only* pair of shoes that I’d want to wear every day for the rest of my life. I bought them on a whim, because the opportunity was there and I took it. And to date, I’ve worn them exactly three times. 

When I was looking for a serious relationship, it was helpful to me to finally realize this about men. (Well, duh…) Sometimes you’re just the pair of cheap pink suede clogs he bought instinctively, without much thought as to how you’d fit into his daily life. That’s not a rejection of you as a potential girlfriend or as a person. It’s really a reflection of Mr. Casual’s mindset. If you’re looking for a long-term relationship, it would behoove you to avoid the guy whose approach to dating is as casual as my relationship to shoes. He may pursue you until you say yes, but after he sleeps with you, he’ll shove you in the back of his closet like a pair of ill-considered pink suede clogs bought for $20.

Feelin' It

There is this hidden grove next to the train tracks near the boat landing where I grew up that would turn into a free candy store once a year. It contained a raspberry patch that only my friends and I seemed to know about, where we would gorge ourselves on buckets of glorious ripe raspberries once every summer. I remember how exhilarating it was to discover a few weeks into summer that the raspberries had come in, and our annual berry bacchanal would begin right then and there. We would eat half our weight in raspberries in one gluttonous afternoon, eventually coming home with our hands and mouths stained blood red from the juice, looking like little vampires.

That’s kind of how it feels to be dating Frenchy. Instead of raspberries, I’m gorging myself on his appreciation. Buckets and buckets of appreciation. After having lived through the long appreciation drought more commonly referred to as "my shitty marriage," I am mainlining his appreciation like an emotional junkie. Being appreciated again by the man in my life is like getting oxygen when you're asthmatic, or hearing Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" after a week-long roadtrip with only Top 40 radio playing the same ten songs over and over in a relentless lobotomize-me-now loop. It's invigorating. Although it’s always nice to be appreciated for anything, it is *particularly* gratifying to feel appreciated for qualities I like and actively cultivate in myself. While it feels "nice" to be appreciated for, say, my good hygiene or my neat handwriting, I will swoon if you appreciate me for making you laugh.

It's not just about hearing those words though. Frenchy shows me his appreciation in other ways too. I feel it when he wants to spend more time with me than I have to give him. I feel it when he sends me a photo of the beautiful pond in the park where he walks his dog. I feel it when he wants to eat dinner with me every night. I feel it when he reaches for my hand and holds it for the rest of the play we're watching. I feel it when he asks for my opinion. I feel it when he touches my hair. I feel it when I remember a name he can't quite recall. I feel it when he looks at me and actually sees a flesh-and-blood woman, not just a piece of talking furniture that is so annoying when it asks questions and tries to start a conversation.

I’m digging it in a big way. If appreciation stained like raspberry juice, I would look redder than a chainsaw-wielding serial killer in a Quentin Tarantino film.

Shoving the Genie Back into the Bottle

I like being in a relationship. Let me qualify that: I like being in a *good* relationship, one characterized by respect, affection, mutual admiration and support, fun, and awesome sweaty sex. It doesn’t really feel natural for me to be "alone." I am the kind of person who probably *should* be married, which is ironic, since I've taken a vow of "I don't."

I grew up believing that when you got married, you stayed married for the rest of your life. I also grew up believing in Santa Claus, the equality of the American justice system, and other absurd myths adults love to pass on to the younger generation before the messiness of real life complicates everything with its more nuanced truths. It’s the way grownups *want* it to be, not necessarily how it is.

Remember what it felt like to discover that Santa Claus isn’t real? Divorce is the adult version of finding out about Santa. Both were hard kicks to the gut, while face-palming myself over and over with, 'How could you be so stupid?' Before I was married, I thought of divorce as something that befell careless people who lacked the discerning judgment to avoid a mismatch. (Although who’s to say I wasn't careless?) Now that I'm divorced, I think the messy truth is, it's a whole lot more than just that. I cringe when I think about my youthful hubris that led me to believe that reciting vows to stay married "till death do us part" was some sort of magical incantation that protected me against the possibility of ever splitting up. From this middle-aged divorcee’s jaded perspective, remaining happily married over the long haul seems as far-fetched as my childhood belief in a bearded fat guy who travels the globe by flying reindeer sleigh to deliver toys to all the children of the world on one single night every year.

My jaded side, which is overly sensitive to all the potential obstacles to a satisfying long-term relationship, is at war with my optimistic side, which wants to believe in the longevity of romantic relationships despite the cognitive dissonance of previous experience. "At war" probably overstates it. It’s more like my jaded side is the insecure eye-rolling middle-school bully who taunts my earnest optimistic side, which wants to believe that one big epic fail at marriage doesn't doom me to a lifetime of unsuccessful short-term relationships.

Now that I’m in a committed new relationship, I wonder how I can reconcile these conflicting views. Is it unrealistic to think that I could have a satisfying long-term romantic relationship without having to suspend my disbelief in marriage? Or do I have to figure out how to somehow shove the marriage genie back into the bottle and unknow what I already know?

A Meditation on the Possibility of Love at First Sight between Actor Ryan Reynolds and a Middle-Aged Frump in a Days Inn Parking Lot

There is this scene in the movie Sherman’s March: A Meditation on the Possibility of Romanic Love In the South During an Era of Nuclear Weapons Proliferation, that has resonated with me ever since I first saw it in 1986. A guy--who might be mistaken for Burt Reynolds by your mildly glaucomatous grandmother when she’s not wearing her glasses--is hanging around the parking lot of some Days Inn-type motel in Georgia, hoping to be hired on as a stand-in for the real Burt Reynolds, who is rumored to be filming in the area. Remember, this was shot back in the mid-1980s, when Burt Reynolds--in all his hairy-chested and mustachioed glory--was a national heartthrob, not a punchline – the George Clooney of his generation, if you will.

The scene culminates when a group of frumpy middle-aged ladies – in their pastel-colored polyester pantsuits, outdated beehive-ish hairdos and garish lipstick – swarm the Burt Reynolds look-alike, mistaking him for the famous actor himself. Excited by the chance to see a real-life A-list celebrity in person, the women wiggle and squeal “Buuuurrrrrrtttt! Oh Buuuurrrrrrrtttttt!” to get his attention while thrusting pen and paper at him for his autograph. At one point, it seems as if they might rip open his shirt to get a look at his hairy man-chest. They can hardly contain themselves in this scene that recalls the screaming girls of 1964 when the Beatles gobsmacked America. It’s hilarious – this juxtaposition of the always dowdy with the anachronistically cool – especially when you view the scene in your 20s, seemingly forever out of the clawing grasp of middle age.

After I turned 30-something, I stopped laughing at and started identifying with those wiggly, dowdy middle-aged ladies (picture a group of excitable Edith Bunkers with big hair), because that’s when it dawned on me that I have more in common with the group of frumps than I do with the “hot” guy. (I use the word “hot” here to reflect the consensus of the Edith Bunkers, not my own personal assessment.) If I ever stumble upon my beloved Ryan Reynolds in a Days Inn parking lot, that is how he’ll view me: just another excitable middle-aged frump with a preposterous crush.

Which leads me to the question,‘Why can’t I crush on a celebrity who’d be more “appropriate” as a crush for me?’ Over the years, I’ve had not-at-all-not-even-slightly embarrassing celebrity crushes on Henry Winkler when he was “Fonzie,” former CNN anchor Aaron Brown, British tv landscaper Alan Titchmarsh, comedian Patton Oswalt, and now on Ryan Reynolds. I know I *should* have better taste in celebrity crushes than pretty-boy actor Ryan Reynolds. He’s such an obvious and pedestrian choice as a crush with his soap-opera good looks, his “you’ve-got-to-be-f*cking-kidding-me” body, and his naturally funny talk-show-banter personality. I get it. It’s not cool for me to have a crush on someone so obviously and excessively attractive. I *should* have a crush on someone more socially acceptable like Steve Buscemi or that tv actor who plays the lead character in House -- actors who are excessively brilliant, if not excessively attractive in a mainstream sort of way.

But I don’t. And I wonder what this says about me – this silly notional crush on an impossibly beautiful celebrity I will almost certainly never meet, and if by chance I did, he’s married and is approximately a thousand years younger than me, not to mention the fact that I already have an awesome boyfriend. I shouldn’t waste my time thinking about such frivolities, when I could be doing something useful like learning to speak German or developing an app that helps determine the celebrities who are socially acceptable for you to crush on, based on your demographic group. On the other hand, it amuses me to think about how Ryan Reynolds would react if I told him, “You are the Burt Reynolds of your generation. Now let me get a looksie at that chest.”