Of course, it may or may not be well documented that I can’t see the signs for the life of me. Remember all those cards and notes from my ex proclaiming his undying love – and then the “didn’t you see the signs” entreaty at the end of my marriage.
I’m fucking oblivious. Clearly.
But I had more faith in Boyfriend Brett. Which shocked me, considering the backstory. Considering my backstory.
I had learned to have faith in us. Somewhere along the way, I had decided that this was supposed to be a typical Boy-Meets-Girl love story.
- Boy(friend Brett) meets Girl (whose marriage ended with a brick) online.
- Boy doesn’t freak out that the entire encounter is part of a cover story about online dating that Girl is writing for a regional lifestyle magazine.
- Boy proves that he neither wants to paint Girl green like the alien in the Star Trek movie and sleep with her, nor that he has any desire to end their relationship with a brick.
- Girl runs for the hills in only minor hysteria almost daily as she learns to trust again, little by little. Boy watches her run and welcomes her back with open arms upon her return, massaging the shin splints she earned from all that fucking running.
- Boy meets Girl’s two children from previous marriage and welcomes them into his life.
- Girl meets Boy’s two children from previous marriage and welcomes them into her life.
- Alice the Maid gets the center square in the sitcom opener.
- Girl realizes she never hired Alice the Maid. Crap.
- Boy and Girl live together forever in blissfully jaded harmony, shirking common mores prescribing a future of marriage, picket fences and “always and forever.” Because all that’s a myth anyhow.
So yeah. That didn’t happen. But whatever.
Except I’m not feeling the “but whatever.”
It’s safe to say I’m devastated by the loss of Boyfriend Brett.
What will I miss about him, you ask?
- I will miss having a boyfriend who buys me silly, bizarre, pointless gifts.
- I will miss a boyfriend who can ghost hunt with me – and appreciate that the only “spirits” we found were in a bar.
- I will miss kicking my boyfriend’s cute-as-a-button ass at air hockey.
- I will miss a boyfriend who needs-needs-NEEDS airport video poker and Bloody Mary’s prior to departing for adventure.
- I will miss my boyfriend’s doodles – the ones in which he makes me look like a gender-neutral character from a Dr. Seuss tale on a restaurant to-go carton:
…then edits to accommodate my insecurities:
…and the ones in which he defiles my daughter’s American Girl catalog:
- And finally, I will miss alliteration. I mean, how many boyfriends could I have met with a first name starting with a “B” to go so nicely with “Boyfriend”? Sure, there’s Brian and Balthazar. Babar and Bevis. Burt and Billy. Bud and Brutus. Barnum and Bailey. And about 311,225,909.89 other “B” names, according to most baby-naming websites. But seriously, what are the odds that Brett’s name would start with a “B”?
(OK, according to my calculations, it’s about one in two. But whatever.)
Shallow, right? I mean, who would say “alliteration” is on the list of things they’ll miss in a boyfriend?
I would. Because while I lost a boyfriend – it seems I gained a fiancé.
Let me give you a sec to really take that in.
I — the blindsided, slightly bitter, definitely jaded writer chick — am engaged. Not “engaged” like “…in a really interesting conversation.” Nope. “Engaged” as in, “…to be married.”
I know, right?
I don’t know how it happened. And maybe this will be fodder for a future blog post — one that will appear sooner than later. And while I’m at it, I must apologize for being visibly absent this past few weeks, and all I can say is: My life has been in a bit of turmoil.
Because even though I love Boyfriend Brett with all my heart, this is the biggest leap of faith I’ve ever taken in my entire life. FUCKING HUGE, friends. Even bigger than marriage #1. Far bigger, in fact — and those of you who’ve “been there, done that” through a blindsiding breakup can relate, I’m sure.
How do I know this won’t happen again? How do I trust that there’s no Marilyn in Brett’s past? How do I not duck every time the word “brick” is bandied about in daily conversation?
(OK, so perhaps “brick” isn’t a daily topic. Dramatic license, people. Sheesh.)
I don’t know. I can’t know.
But today, I’m ok with that.
Tomorrow I might be curled up in the fetal position, huffing and puffing into a brown paper bag in a dark corner, but today: I’m ok.
Today, though, what I do lament is the loss of alliteration. I mean, couldn’t his name be Felipe? Fernando? Fabio?
(Never mind the fact that deep down, I clearly desire a European man with long flowing hair and ripped abs…)
Then he could be “Fiancé Ferdinand.” Or something like that.
Until then, I guess we just wait for the day he will be “Husband.” Because luckily, “Husband Hugh” is an option. For the purposes of this blog, at least.
So everyone, while this post represents the end of the beginning, it’s also a new beginning altogether.
I’m still slightly bitter. I’m still jaded. I’m still scared shitless.
But I’ve decided to take a stand against my own backstory. And I do believe a stand like this may just be the ultimate “fuck you” to the gutless cowards who betray a spouse.
Because while the way my ex ended our marriage did forever change me, it did not fundamentally change me. I may not be the doe-eyed, trusting and naive girl who believes in a fairy-tale forever, but I do still believe that an honest relationship can result in real commitment that may just last forever.
And guess what? The Universe may just have sent a personalized sign my way the very day of our engagement. Look what was in my backyard:
So, friends: Any advice for me? Words of wisdom for Boyfriend — er, I mean, Fiancé Brett? Was the backyard squirrel an omen? Am I fucking crazy?
Time will tell. And I hope you all stay right by my side to see how this new chapter unfolds. Because if history has taught me anything, it’s that plenty more “you can’t make this shit up” is still to come…