Comparing Scars

“…you had some sort of "incident" that caused both of you to react and you never really resolved it.  Plus - you guys are both obviously ‘new’ to the whole dating thing again, and quite frankly suck at it.”

 

Yeah, that’s the email pillow drool I woke up to this morning.  It’s the Pirate Queen’s way of kissing me good morning. I’d rather she just ask me if I had soft sheets, but no, today it’s about past mistakes.

 

She brings them up because they’re on my mind. If she had a super power it would be the eye of perception.  Her good eye--the other one has a patch…

 

My super power?  She says that I’m “uhm…funny?” Yeah I’m gonna catch a lot of bad guys that way.

 

"Here comes RobBlogger!"

"What's his super power again?"

"uhm...he's, uhm...funny I believe."

"Oh, we are so screwed."

 

Well it doesn’t matter. Today my super powers won’t help me. Today we’re comparing scars. That’s right, we’ve come to that dreaded moment where we compare previous relationships.

 

That’s right everyone you’ve kissed leaves a lipstick smudge and there comes a time in every relationship where you’re accountable for every historic scarlet smear. I lost my virginity to Bambi—the movie, not the deer—I assure you that that’s relevant here.

 

“Which scene.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Think.”

“Why is it important?”

“I’m not going to continue talking to somebody who ‘got busy’ while Momma Bambi got shot.”

“Oh I was definitely done before then.”

“Ok, then.”

 

It’s a your resume. Mine’s short. I’m finished in 30 seconds.  Yeah, go ahead and laugh.  Still this is an important interview, because I’m not the only one on trial here. 

 

“So why did you divorce?” The email asks.

 

Yup, that’s the million dollar question. Pirate Queen is listening, and I’m cyber watching, because I want to know how she reacts. I tell her my story: the good, the bad, and the Robby.  When I hit “send” she knows everything I know. 

 

It’s a simultaneous test. See, what she says about my divorce tells me as much about her as my story tells her about me.  Does she tell me what a wretch MyEx was? That never says anything good. It tells me two things. It tells me that the she doesn’t acknowledge that there are multiple sides to all stories, and it also tells me that she’s quick to speak ill of people she doesn’t know.  I’ve made that mistake before; I won’t make it again. 

 

Here’s the thing.  MyEx is my ex, she’s my cross to bear, and if there’s any ill will, I’ll carry it myself. I married her.  I saw something about her once, how that’s changed is between MyEx and I.  How I face my future, well that depends on the next reply.

           

 Over the web, ten minutes is an eternity.  I swear I can see the matrix if I stare hard enough. Pretty soon clicking the Google Ads just to pass time. No I don’t need to pay $400 to figure out my life’s purpose, but thanks for asking…Wait! Llamas in kilts? Stop the press! 

 

Ping!

 

A new email arrives.

 

“How sad.”

 

She passed. 

 

Apparently so did I, later, on the phone, she shares her scars.  After a half hour I see why we’re doing this on the phone, “…and that brings you to third grade…” Yeah, my Pirate Queen believes in full disclosure.  It’s cool I appreciate people who share as much as I hate people who leave me guessing. I’m not sure why I need to know about Billy Fitzsimmons’ harelip but it’s nice to know that if I have a need, it’s there.

 

She tells me about her marriage, and I listen. Her story is different than mine. She paints in blacks and whites, mixing greys where they’re appropriate. In her tale there are clear-cut wrongs made by both sides.

 

Her voice shares no glee when she relates her decisions. There’s an innocence lost, but a woman found. She’s made peace with what’s done and where she’s going. I don’t say anything. I listen.

 

It’s not the easiest conversation to have, but it’s important to know, because our experiences say a lot about who we are.  They show how we learn and grow, and they also show patterns.  If I’ve had three wives leave because “they didn’t approve of my internet research,” then maybe I should stop Googling porn, or find somebody who can show me where all the good sites are.

 

When she’s done we talk about more important stuff: “So what thread count sheets do you buy?”

 

Yeah, we all have our priorities.