Somebody once said, “You can’t go home again,” and when they said it, it certainly wasn’t from home, and I’m certain it wasn’t that long ago. How do I know? QED: They didn’t say it in Latin. That’s also how I know they’re wrong. All true statements can be tracked back through their Clairol colored strands to their dark Latin roots.
Carpe Diem, “Seize the fish.” See? Everything important was once spoken by a dead guy speaking a dead language. “You can’t go home again,” only goes back as far as the eye can see, and home is much further than this eye can see; home is where the heart is, and mine is on the sleeve of a recently pressed oxford that’s wrapped in plastic and stored in my closet.
The truth is, you can go home again. You probably should bring your own body bag though, cuz you’re gonna need it. Just because you can, doesn’t always mean you should. Sometimes it just means you have a lot to learn.
Last weekend, I did something because I could: I set up a play date with MyEx. It didn’t start as a play date. It started as something worse. It started as an act of self-abuse, and just got fun from there. It started while I rummaged through some old stuff stored next to my oxford. It started because I found something I thought MyEx might want.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Yes?”
“Look, I figure enough time has passed, and I just thought I should check with you…”
“About what?”
“What do you want done with those naked pictures of your mother…”
Ok, I’m kidding. I don’t have naked pictures of her mother. I’ve never met the woman; she didn’t even come to our wedding. I think she didn’t want MyEx to believe she come home again.
That’s really why I called too: our wedding. It happened, and I found the pictures. Our marriage is as much MyEx’s history as it is mine; I wanted to know if she wanted the proof. It was only fair. I have a bundle of negatives.
I’m positive that’s why they say you can’t go home again. That’s not what I was asking for though; I was asking her to stop by for a quick visit. I wasn’t asking that we revisit anything else, just an offering of a strangled dove with an olive branch impaling its throat.
She accepted my rigorous peace offering, and we arranged a time for her to come to my home. My awkward senses were tingling. There’s something inherently wrong about inviting your ex wife over to go through wedding pictures.
“More bleeding heart pâté”
“Please! It’s yummy.”
“I think it’s cute.” said one friend. She also believes bloody Carebear heads on pikes are charming; forgive me if I don’t accept her as the OED expert on cute. I don’t think she’s traced cute back to the cuddly Latin roots.
I also don’t think that returning to my wedding is cute. Still, it was something I needed to do. It may not be cute, but it was right, and sometimes right sucks.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I dislike MyEx. She’s not a bad person. I’m not even mad at her for leaving. She did what she thought she had to keep her sanity. In my way, I appreciate that, because nobody likes to live with a crazy woman. That’s certainly not something I’d want to return home to, although it would give me something to write home about.
“Dear Mom and Dad, you really ought to see this. Caveat emptor…”
Buyer, seize the straight jacket.
So I’m ok with things now, and I’m sure MyEx is too. So, I invited her over to amputate some limbs and have some laughs. She brought her new dog; he likes raw meat.
Actually the dog was a good idea. His name was Andrew and he was cute. He took the pressure off of her returning to my home. When the air seemed to thick in the room, he lied down and licked himself. I think we could all learn a lesson from that, if only we could accomplish it.
So I spent a few Saturday hours with MyEx and her pup. I would never tell her this, but it was good to see her. I don’t mean in a “let’s go home again” kind of way, but in a “you’re a welcome guest in my home” kind of way. She looked good; she’s lost a lot of weight, and looks healthier than the last time I saw her. We still fell back on the same discussions, and had the same laughs. It was hard to believe we were ever divorced, but we were. We are. There is no returning from that.
In the end we both accept it, and I think that’s why we get along. We have no expectations, no ulterior motives, no desires to exact justice. We’re just two veterans sitting around the fire comparing pictures, without a leg to stand on.
Veni, vidi, vici, We came, we saw, we smell like fish. It’s an old Latin saying. See? All roads lead to Rome; they just arrive at different homes.
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