Men, Men, Menly Men

I make poor choices in men.

From my 8th grade boyfriend Billy (who was older and already in high school and who wanted way more than a 13 yr old was ready to give) to the man I met when I was 38, newly divorced and as raw as a 13 yr old... I make poor choices.

A stalked me and my girlfriends one christmas vacation when we went caroling, sneaking around behind us and noting details to share with me afterward to prove he'd done it.  Ahhhh, Jr. High.

B had a juvenile criminal record,  Oh, High School.

C had a girlfriend back home.  Hello College.

D hid debt and despair under credit cards and fast cars.  Welcome to adulthood.

E forgot to mention that he wasn't actually divorced... or that he had a son.  And here we go, grownup style!

F couldn't separate love from control; power and shame from attraction and commitment...but he hid it well for 14 years of marriage.  Oh, wait, THIS is "grown up style"... ok... gotcha.

G made believe that a pierced penis and a job as a correctional officer was the same thing as "strong" and "safe" and "brave" and "authentic".  Steve was wrong.

and H? H convinced himself that love and control were the same... that attraction and attachment were equal to love and commitment: and he nearly convinced a 38 year old divorcee that it was so. Ahhh, this is life!  The learning of your own infallibility and how you play out your own mistakes time and time again until you LEARN something.

ouch.

I will rewrite my own story though, and I will write about my discernment, my patience, my authenticity and transparency.  I will write of my open and welcoming spirit that does not long for whats missing but that waits for something more to add to an already peaceful perfect life.  I will write of confidence, of humor, of acceptance and joy.  And I will write of men.  Of Menly Men.  Of MY men...and of my good choices.

There is a story here...

He keeps trying to write in the sand but the waves slide relentlessly over his work and erase his efforts.   Randomly he gets one word done and snaps a picture.   I watch him in sidelong glances from where I am sitting in the sand several feet above the tentacles of the highest wave.

In between glances, I gaze out into the wide, wild, endless Hawaiian ocean spreading before me and I try to breathe away the last 7 years of stress.

I see him again, this time trying to pose and take a selfie in front of his word but the waves comes and wash it away and also gets his butt wet.   He writes "Marry Me" in the sand, over and over and over again but the tide keeps washing it away, and finally when he gets it done and poses, the water just comes right up and drenches him.   I wonder if this is an omen?

I choose this moment to leap up and run a few feet closer to the tide line.   I scrawl my own word with a fierce defiant pressure, using my index finger and hurrying before the next wave comes.   I write, "REGRET".

I am left waiting, wave after wave, for the ocean to come and claim my regret, to take it away from me, to erase it.   I wait far longer than I thought I would, much longer than Mr. Marry Me, but when a wave finally does break high enough and come rushing toward my word, it only erases a portion of it.

There is a story here I'm sure...