A friend of mine is having a rough patch with her boyfriend right now. I won’t go into details because they aren’t mine to share, but talking to her brought up one of my past relationships.
When I was in my twenties, I dated a guy for three years. We met at a party, went on some dates, and a month later said, “I love you” to each other. Four months into our relationship we moved in together. It was fun and adventurous since we rented our friend’s trailer in a trailer park. We laughed about how our house used to have wheels. We giggled when the washer was on spin cycle and the opposite end of the trailer shook like a carnival ride.
Eventually, we moved from Vail to Boulder. Although we’d both lived in Boulder before, my friends were long gone after graduation and his were happy he was back. Quickly, I found that the time we used to spend together in Vail was now spent with his friends or alone while he was with his friends.
About a year into the relationship, I started questioning things. Prior to this one, my longest relationship had been in college for six months. I was determined to have one that lasted at least a year. So, I ignored the questions and persevered.
That summer, I asked my cousin how she broke off her engagement, and she said, “When the voices got so loud that I couldn’t ignore them, I ended it. At first, there was a small voice saying he wasn’t the one for me, but I ignored it. Then, it got a little louder, and I told it to shut-up. Finally, it got so loud, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. That’s when I knew.”
I’d recognized the voices, but I thought, “They aren’t that loud. Maybe they’re wrong.”
In the second year, we went to a couple’s counselor to try to make it work. He even moved out so we would have to make an effort to see each other instead of taking each other for granted. We broke-up and got back together about eight times until we finally decided we would stick it out until we were sure we wanted out. That was October.
By the following spring, I was wrought with emotion. I woke up at 5am, tossing and turning, so upset as to what to do. I would wait, tormented, until 6am so I could call my mom on the east coast in tears, begging her to help it get better. I fell asleep worrying, with a knot in my stomach, not listening to all the signs around me.
I booked a trip to North Caroline to see my mom and clear my heard. I spent the week talking about the future with my boyfriend in Boulder. It was like I was trying to talk myself into a life with him. The more I talked about it, the more real it became so I kept talking. My mom, being the amazing woman that she is, just listened, biting her tongue from saying DUMP HIM.
Finally, the week ended and I was on my way back to Boulder. I remember sitting on the airplane full of hope for my relationship. He picked me up at the airport, and things were good. I was happy to see him.
Then, back at my apartment, we were snuggling on the couch when the voices screamed at me, “He’s not the one for you! You have to move on!”
I looked around to see if he heard. He kept going on about how great things were, and how much he missed me.
“YOU HAVE TO BREAK-UP WITH HIM!” the voices yelled.
I sat up. And I knew. The voices were not going to let me ignore them any longer. It took me three more days to finally break-up with him, but I did it. It was the best thing I ever did for myself, and I wondered why I waited so long to do it. It was also one of the hardest things to do. He never hit me or cheated on me, which I used to wish for because then I would have had a clear answer as to why it had to end. In hindsight, he said things that damaged me, but I probably did the same to him. I had a lot of healing to do after that relationship. Sometimes I wonder if I’d listened to the voices earlier, would it have been easier?
I don’t envy my friend right now. Trying to figure out if a relationship should continue or not is difficult. There are so many variables, and everyone who listens and gives advice is carrying their own baggage. No one can see what it is like to be in the relationship, the secret goodness (or badness). It’s hard because in my experience, being unhappy meant that I needed to move on, but for other friends, that was just a layer before their relationship deepened. I listen to her, and like my mom, I try to bite my tongue from saying anything too positive or negative, knowing she has to come to a conclusion on her own – whatever that may be.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Oh the Itch
I’ve always had crazy skin. It breaks out in a rash if the temperature changes. I was allergic to milk, wheat and eggs as a kid (and yes, it completely sucked). Besides being congested and slightly asthmatic, I got a rash behind my knees. If I ignored it and kept eating cookies and ice cream, it would spread up my inner thighs, then jump to the crooks of my arms and sometimes even under my arms. Add a little heat and humidity, and oh, those were the days.
Luckily, I’ve mostly grown out of the allergies (there’s hope for all those kids today), but I still get rashes occasionally. I’ve had eczema on my eyelids and an itchy rash on my belly, which were both treated by acupuncturists. (My system runs hot so I should avoid spicy things that “heat” my system. Add it to the list.) So, when I got a rash on the back of my arm and a few spots on my hip, I didn’t think that much about it. I just decided to start following my acupuncture diet (no wheat, no diary, no red meat, no spicy stuff, no sugar, no night shade vegetables – yes, there are still things to eat). In fact, I was kind of happy because it gave me a reason to lose some of the marriage weight I’ve put on.
Then, on Tuesday, I show Pete my hip in a search of some sympathy, but instead, he yells, “I’ve got that on my arm!” Bells went off in my head. I wanted to faint. I was sure we had some awful, contagious skin condition. I’m used to rashes that don’t spread, but this? My lord, I’d given it to my husband! We’re one of the gross couples with rashes! I quickly called the doctor, and rushed over that afternoon.
I was prepared. The quarantine we’d face in our apartment. The piles of laundry we’d have to do. I was ready. Just give me the antibiotics. But, she said it was just poison oak. Poison oak? From where?
Pete and I have been on a get back in shape kick (why does marriage make you fat?), and we’ve been hiking every weekend. Prior to meeting Pete, I hiked most weekends and never, ever got poison oak. EVER. So, a few weekends ago, we were hiking in Temescal Canyon after one of the drenching rains, and happily staying on the trail. Then, at the very end of the hike, there was this group of people with a net wading through the creek. It was an odd sight since a) if you caught a fish in the stream it would most likely be about 2 inches long and b) it would most likely be full of toxins. Of course we stopped and asked what they were doing. (The words, “Move along, folks. There’s nothing to see here,” ring in my ears.)
Apparently, one of them had seen a koi swimming in the creek earlier and they’d come back to rescue it. (You have to love LA. My street is packed full of homeless people and they are saving koi.) We didn’t stay long enough to find out if they found it, but we pulled far enough off the trail to step in some poison oak.
At least this is what we’ve deduced. My dad was here last weekend, so we didn’t go hiking. But, we did get poison oak. The only thing we can figure out is that it was on the shoes we wore for the walk we took with my dad.
Since Wednesday, I’ve been all over the net reading about poison oak and urushiol, the pesky oil it contains that can stay on things for YEARS and infect you. YEARS.
Since we aren’t 100% sure it was the shoes, we are washing everything. Pete started the laundry last night, washing all the towels and his clothes. I have piles of sheets to wash plus my clothes (fair division of laundry). I’ve sprayed the couch and our shoes down with rubbing alcohol. We’re hoping this covers any places the oils may be lurking.
Today, the spots are getting bigger, but softer around the edges – more blister-like. This is supposed to last 12-20 days. On the bright side, my obsessing has made the week fly by, but I have no idea how I’m not going to itch for that long. Pete’s already ripped the tops off of most of his blisters. I guess I did learn something from all my rashes as a kid. Although, it still feels great to just sit back and itch sometimes. Only 10-18 days to go…
Luckily, I’ve mostly grown out of the allergies (there’s hope for all those kids today), but I still get rashes occasionally. I’ve had eczema on my eyelids and an itchy rash on my belly, which were both treated by acupuncturists. (My system runs hot so I should avoid spicy things that “heat” my system. Add it to the list.) So, when I got a rash on the back of my arm and a few spots on my hip, I didn’t think that much about it. I just decided to start following my acupuncture diet (no wheat, no diary, no red meat, no spicy stuff, no sugar, no night shade vegetables – yes, there are still things to eat). In fact, I was kind of happy because it gave me a reason to lose some of the marriage weight I’ve put on.
Then, on Tuesday, I show Pete my hip in a search of some sympathy, but instead, he yells, “I’ve got that on my arm!” Bells went off in my head. I wanted to faint. I was sure we had some awful, contagious skin condition. I’m used to rashes that don’t spread, but this? My lord, I’d given it to my husband! We’re one of the gross couples with rashes! I quickly called the doctor, and rushed over that afternoon.
I was prepared. The quarantine we’d face in our apartment. The piles of laundry we’d have to do. I was ready. Just give me the antibiotics. But, she said it was just poison oak. Poison oak? From where?
Pete and I have been on a get back in shape kick (why does marriage make you fat?), and we’ve been hiking every weekend. Prior to meeting Pete, I hiked most weekends and never, ever got poison oak. EVER. So, a few weekends ago, we were hiking in Temescal Canyon after one of the drenching rains, and happily staying on the trail. Then, at the very end of the hike, there was this group of people with a net wading through the creek. It was an odd sight since a) if you caught a fish in the stream it would most likely be about 2 inches long and b) it would most likely be full of toxins. Of course we stopped and asked what they were doing. (The words, “Move along, folks. There’s nothing to see here,” ring in my ears.)
Apparently, one of them had seen a koi swimming in the creek earlier and they’d come back to rescue it. (You have to love LA. My street is packed full of homeless people and they are saving koi.) We didn’t stay long enough to find out if they found it, but we pulled far enough off the trail to step in some poison oak.
At least this is what we’ve deduced. My dad was here last weekend, so we didn’t go hiking. But, we did get poison oak. The only thing we can figure out is that it was on the shoes we wore for the walk we took with my dad.
Since Wednesday, I’ve been all over the net reading about poison oak and urushiol, the pesky oil it contains that can stay on things for YEARS and infect you. YEARS.
Since we aren’t 100% sure it was the shoes, we are washing everything. Pete started the laundry last night, washing all the towels and his clothes. I have piles of sheets to wash plus my clothes (fair division of laundry). I’ve sprayed the couch and our shoes down with rubbing alcohol. We’re hoping this covers any places the oils may be lurking.
Today, the spots are getting bigger, but softer around the edges – more blister-like. This is supposed to last 12-20 days. On the bright side, my obsessing has made the week fly by, but I have no idea how I’m not going to itch for that long. Pete’s already ripped the tops off of most of his blisters. I guess I did learn something from all my rashes as a kid. Although, it still feels great to just sit back and itch sometimes. Only 10-18 days to go…
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Yin and Yang
I’m kind of cheap. I mean, I’m not the person at a group dinner splitting the cost of the appetizer, adding up my entrée and one glass of wine, loudly declaring, “I only had one glass of wine. I’m paying $20 instead of $40!” We all know that person. No, I’m not her. I guess I’m more “frugal.”
I hate paying full retail price. HATE IT. I hate it so much that last Saturday I waited not one, but TWO HOURS to get into the Citizens of Humanity sample sale. TWO HOURS!! (Okay, we left to check other sample sales and came back to our same spot in line the nice women in front of us held while they thought we were eating but it was still 1 hour and fifteen minutes.) On the bright side, I found four pairs of pants for $320 instead of $800, but come on! It was almost my ENTIRE Saturday! Do I really NEED four new pairs of pants? Probably not. (See? Frugal, not cheap.)
Which brings me to my yang. Pete is generous. I mean, really, really, makes-my-tight-fist-clench generous.
I’ll go online to buy a wedding gift for a wedding we didn’t attend, and think, “This lovely vase seems like a good purchase.”
“No, you can spend more.”
“Um, okay. The platter is nice, too.”
“Get them the platter AND the vase,” he’ll declare.
My little, cheap heart shudders.
To give a little perspective, I was broke for years after college (like twelve). I graduated and moved to Los Angeles, which isn’t the smartest thing to do without money or nice clothes or parents to live with. Luckily, Visa and MasterCard thought I should look stylish and eat at fabulous restaurants so they sponsored me. After I grew tired of all the trying so hard, I decided I needed to move back to Colorado. Again, Visa and MasterCard took pity on me and helped finance it. My pals Visa and MasterCard never wanted me to go without, and kindly stepped in to buy me new furniture for my apartment in Boulder. They paid for lift tickets for skiing. Dinner out with friends. The outfit I wore to go to dinner and the one for skiing. They were like fairy godparents. Until I had to pay them back.
I always worked over the years, but it seemed like none of the jobs paid very well. When I realized those nasty fairy godparents weren’t going to help, I battened down the hatches. Money squeaked out. I stopped spending as frivolously. I started thinking, “Do I need another pair of black shoes or could I send that money to Visa or MasterCard?” My mindset around money shifted completely. I learned to respect money, but it took awhile. It wasn’t like I just woke up and thought, “By Jove I’ve got it! Stop spending!”
And then finally, one bright day, after scrimping, respecting and limiting my eating out habit (it is bad), I found that I was no longer indebted to Visa and MasterCard.
Which brings me back to Pete. He has never been indebted to the ugly fairy god parents. He’s German. Europeans don’t understand the concept of getting in debt to build credit so he never did. He had low points in his financial life, but not with the noose of debt hanging around his neck. He approaches spending very differently than I do.
Which brings me to last night and why I am lucky that he’s my husband. My friend Heidi produced an indie film, and had a silent auction to raise money for it last night. He was intent on finding things to bid on, and we did. When I didn’t want to bid more for something, he would say, “But it’s for Heidi! It’s a good cause.” While I agreed, I didn’t see the need for us to have flip-flop coasters or pay over the retail price for a cool travel book (plus I donated a few items for the auction).
We ended up with the winning bid for a beautiful antique watch Pete had to have and winning the raffle ($50 gift certificate for a local restaurant). Unfortunately, most of the people there didn’t bid on anything, and things (other than the travel book) went for far under value. Thankfully, I have him in my life to loosen my purse strings and let some of the money flow. Not to mention, support my friends.
I hate paying full retail price. HATE IT. I hate it so much that last Saturday I waited not one, but TWO HOURS to get into the Citizens of Humanity sample sale. TWO HOURS!! (Okay, we left to check other sample sales and came back to our same spot in line the nice women in front of us held while they thought we were eating but it was still 1 hour and fifteen minutes.) On the bright side, I found four pairs of pants for $320 instead of $800, but come on! It was almost my ENTIRE Saturday! Do I really NEED four new pairs of pants? Probably not. (See? Frugal, not cheap.)
Which brings me to my yang. Pete is generous. I mean, really, really, makes-my-tight-fist-clench generous.
I’ll go online to buy a wedding gift for a wedding we didn’t attend, and think, “This lovely vase seems like a good purchase.”
“No, you can spend more.”
“Um, okay. The platter is nice, too.”
“Get them the platter AND the vase,” he’ll declare.
My little, cheap heart shudders.
To give a little perspective, I was broke for years after college (like twelve). I graduated and moved to Los Angeles, which isn’t the smartest thing to do without money or nice clothes or parents to live with. Luckily, Visa and MasterCard thought I should look stylish and eat at fabulous restaurants so they sponsored me. After I grew tired of all the trying so hard, I decided I needed to move back to Colorado. Again, Visa and MasterCard took pity on me and helped finance it. My pals Visa and MasterCard never wanted me to go without, and kindly stepped in to buy me new furniture for my apartment in Boulder. They paid for lift tickets for skiing. Dinner out with friends. The outfit I wore to go to dinner and the one for skiing. They were like fairy godparents. Until I had to pay them back.
I always worked over the years, but it seemed like none of the jobs paid very well. When I realized those nasty fairy godparents weren’t going to help, I battened down the hatches. Money squeaked out. I stopped spending as frivolously. I started thinking, “Do I need another pair of black shoes or could I send that money to Visa or MasterCard?” My mindset around money shifted completely. I learned to respect money, but it took awhile. It wasn’t like I just woke up and thought, “By Jove I’ve got it! Stop spending!”
And then finally, one bright day, after scrimping, respecting and limiting my eating out habit (it is bad), I found that I was no longer indebted to Visa and MasterCard.
Which brings me back to Pete. He has never been indebted to the ugly fairy god parents. He’s German. Europeans don’t understand the concept of getting in debt to build credit so he never did. He had low points in his financial life, but not with the noose of debt hanging around his neck. He approaches spending very differently than I do.
Which brings me to last night and why I am lucky that he’s my husband. My friend Heidi produced an indie film, and had a silent auction to raise money for it last night. He was intent on finding things to bid on, and we did. When I didn’t want to bid more for something, he would say, “But it’s for Heidi! It’s a good cause.” While I agreed, I didn’t see the need for us to have flip-flop coasters or pay over the retail price for a cool travel book (plus I donated a few items for the auction).
We ended up with the winning bid for a beautiful antique watch Pete had to have and winning the raffle ($50 gift certificate for a local restaurant). Unfortunately, most of the people there didn’t bid on anything, and things (other than the travel book) went for far under value. Thankfully, I have him in my life to loosen my purse strings and let some of the money flow. Not to mention, support my friends.
Friday, December 7, 2007
My Husband
When I started this blog, my husband thought it was a really bad idea. He doesn’t like the idea of personal information available for public consumption, and because of that, I try my best to keep our lives slightly veiled. I published a post prior to leaving for Vietnam that said how long we would be gone for and how excited I was. I wanted to share the excitement, but then, I started thinking about it all. What if someone was reading my blog and knew we were out of town…. All the “what ifs” starting creeping in, so I deleted it.
Although he has warmed to the idea of my posting about our lives, he asked me not to use his name, which is why I refer to him as “my husband.” I hate writing that because it seems so… well, unlike me. I thought about just calling him, “The German,” but that’s a nickname I would have given him if we’d dated and it hadn’t work out.
He has a German name that isn’t common in the US, so he saves himself time at restaurants and coffee shops by simply telling them his name is Pete. So, to honor him, I won’t call him by his real name. From here on out, he will be known as Pete.
Although he has warmed to the idea of my posting about our lives, he asked me not to use his name, which is why I refer to him as “my husband.” I hate writing that because it seems so… well, unlike me. I thought about just calling him, “The German,” but that’s a nickname I would have given him if we’d dated and it hadn’t work out.
He has a German name that isn’t common in the US, so he saves himself time at restaurants and coffee shops by simply telling them his name is Pete. So, to honor him, I won’t call him by his real name. From here on out, he will be known as Pete.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Finding the Middle
“She always has to win. This is why she is divorced.”
My fiancé told me this in regards to a woman who I had a mis-communicated business transaction. She replied to my one paragraph email with four paragraphs. She, the super, busy, professional woman to me, the executive assistant, aspiring web entrepreneur. If she is so busy, and so successful, why does she need to quibble with me over $50? I won’t go into the gory details of something that has taken way too much energy, but his comments left me pondering the concept of always having to win and marriage.
Marriage, like all relationships, requires compromise. Requires backing down. There will always be things that I will stand up for like not having a cat. But most things in life are negotiable. We argued over where to live – my apartment, his apartment, or a different apartment. I’m pushing to leave Los Angeles, he wants to stay. I’m giving in on these things. We moved into his apartment in Venice, and for now, are staying in Los Angeles. I folded on a gas stove (his apartment has electric which is almost unheard of in LA), but I made it clear that the next time we move, an electric stove is a deal breaker no matter how cool the apartment (or, hopefully, HOUSE) is. We give and we take. We demand and we acquiesce.
It didn’t hit me until he said that about her always having to win, that neither one of us works that way. I already decided to meet her original, misunderstood-by-me demands. In my mind, I was giving a little, she would be giving a little. We both come out even. No winner, no loser. Just a lesson in communication to be learned by each of us.
With my relationship, I’m going to keep compromising when I can. And I’m going to feel blessed that the man I’m choosing to spend my life with doesn’t always have to win.
My fiancé told me this in regards to a woman who I had a mis-communicated business transaction. She replied to my one paragraph email with four paragraphs. She, the super, busy, professional woman to me, the executive assistant, aspiring web entrepreneur. If she is so busy, and so successful, why does she need to quibble with me over $50? I won’t go into the gory details of something that has taken way too much energy, but his comments left me pondering the concept of always having to win and marriage.
Marriage, like all relationships, requires compromise. Requires backing down. There will always be things that I will stand up for like not having a cat. But most things in life are negotiable. We argued over where to live – my apartment, his apartment, or a different apartment. I’m pushing to leave Los Angeles, he wants to stay. I’m giving in on these things. We moved into his apartment in Venice, and for now, are staying in Los Angeles. I folded on a gas stove (his apartment has electric which is almost unheard of in LA), but I made it clear that the next time we move, an electric stove is a deal breaker no matter how cool the apartment (or, hopefully, HOUSE) is. We give and we take. We demand and we acquiesce.
It didn’t hit me until he said that about her always having to win, that neither one of us works that way. I already decided to meet her original, misunderstood-by-me demands. In my mind, I was giving a little, she would be giving a little. We both come out even. No winner, no loser. Just a lesson in communication to be learned by each of us.
With my relationship, I’m going to keep compromising when I can. And I’m going to feel blessed that the man I’m choosing to spend my life with doesn’t always have to win.
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