Post divorce post

I never pretended to know what I was doing.

Good thing I didn't. Because aw hell.

Three years ago, if you had told me I'd be sitting down to write this with now two divorces under my belt, I would have thrown. UP.

Who wants that as a bragging right? 'Oh yeah? So you climbed the Himalayas and met The Yeti? That's nothing. I'm under 40 and have already been married to two psychopaths AND been divorced twice.' Yeah. Beat that.

Never did I want to be staring down the latter half of my 30s single with two dogs and no boyfriend. The 16 year old version of me would slap me for all the stupid decisions I've made thus far, I just know it.

How do you describe the intensity of knowing you've been abandoned twice? There are no words that can define that cracked and splintered state of your heart which no amount of healing can fix.

So you just take one day at a time. Pick yourself back up off the floor. Realize that while NO, this too will NOT necessarily pass, you still must live. And breathe.

Let me brush the dust off this...

It can't be October. I mean, it just can't. How is that even possible?

I'm getting ready to start my 33rd year of life next month (in other words, I'm turning 32), and so far, the thrilling 30s have been anything BUT thrilling. More like, kicked in the teeth, knocked flat to the ground, and then made fun of for having a big butt 30s.

Lately I've been experiencing some health problems that just won't let up, so I decided to bite the bullet, and visit the doctor. And then HE decided to run some blood tests on me, and the blood tests then decided to give all of us the middle finger. I have a follow-up scheduled in a couple weeks, as well as a couple 'specialist' appointments coming up, and well I can't say I'm very happy about it all.

I don't know what happened, honestly. 29 was so great. I had so much energy, so much ambition. I mean, it's not like sunshine was shining out of my arse every second of every day, but I just generally felt...good. I got remarried toward the tail end of 29, in September, and I remember thinking how GREAT everything was going. I was young, healthy, and I just married a young, healthy guy who was ready to take on the world with me.

And then 30 came around the corner, said, "Oh yeah?" and gave me the biggest wedgie of my life.

All of sudden, getting out of bed in the morning got hard. And I couldn't eat like I used to...spicy foods started organizing their own laser light show and pyrotechnics in my gut. And then, talking got hard...I started forgetting simple things, like people's names I had just met or what I was doing in a room right after I walked into it.

Know what else I got in my 30s? CARPAL TUNNEL. I was just sitting at my computer, working, when this shooting pain starts up my left arm and I literally thought for a split second that I was having a stroke until I noticed that my wrist was starting to get unusually crunchy.

You should have seen the look the doctor gave me when I was describing how it felt, like I was describing a new flavor of Doritos instead of the mystery pain in my wrist. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how crunchy would you say your wrist is?" "Um, somewhere just above Cool Ranch."

So, I don't know what the heck happened. All I know is it's way past my bedtime and where on earth did I put my Tums?

Moving on

If I were a good enough writer, I would be able to transmit to you, through your eyes absorbing each word into your brain, what a hectic yet wonderful mess the last three months of my life have been. And then, when I was finished about the last three months, I would go into the three months before that, the not-so-wonderful ones, talking about moving internationally and squeezing all that you've ever owned in your entire life into four regular sized suitcases and one carry-on (the other carry-on being my husbands guitar, stuffed in every crack and crevice with t-shirts and anything heavy that would cost us our unborn child if it were weighed in our checked bags).

I would tell you about the enormous amount of work that goes into transitioning back in to life in the United States, about the terror that is the DMV, and I would warn through my detailed account that if ANYONE is considering leaving ANYTHING in their will through an executor, to please, in the name of all that is good, just NAME THE FRIGGIN PERSON YOU WANT IT TO GO TO, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, so your exhausted granddaughter doesn't have to make a gazillion trips to the DMV to try and buy your car from your estate once you're dead and gone.

I would also tell you about living with relatives for three months, in their living room. I would go on and on about being so desperate for some four walls of your own that your husband constructs a makeshift wall out of cardboard and duct tape, and the rejoicing that commenced for the next week over it's arrival until it came crashing back down again like a heap of, well, cardboard.

I'm pretty sure, however, I would also regale you with enormous verbiage about our move from Florida to Tennessee, how Florida is flat and expensive and Atlanta traffic SUCKS even at 3 in the afternoon on a weekend, and how right now I am looking out my window at the trees and the hills and the adorable little brick house across the street, listening to the rooster crow tirelessly next door and thinking, "Man. This finally feels like home."

Just call me Humpy.

I am married to probably one of the healthiest and fittest guys I have ever known. Well, aside from Chris Evans. He is just delicious. *drool*

Aherm.

And while I admire my hubby's focus on all things health-related and his occasional burst of excitement over the latest protein powder gag oops, I mean, yummy! he's purchased, I, on the other hand, prefer the Couch Method. As in I sit on it. The Couch.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I've attended hubby's Zumba classes quite a number of times, and Jabba the Hutt I am not...at least, not on my good days. (PMS days? Ehh, you better have a Snickers bar in one hand and a chair to fight me back with in the other.)

Hubby loves me at the weight I am at, and is constantly assuring me of that. I've never felt pressure from him to change anything, and because of that, my own self-confidence has boosted to new levels that I didn't really know during my teens and 20's, unfortunately. In other words, there are days where I don't absolutely loathe the way I look.

Progress! I take my victories in stride.

I am, however, my own worst critic. Most women are. Everyone else around them can assure them all they want; the result is still the same with most when confronted, face to face, with (cue the dramatic music) The Mirror of Atrocious Realities.

*screams* *faints* *recovers* *has a snack*

You know how the process goes:

Ugh, is that a MUFFIN TOP? Yes, yes it is. I know it because it resembles the one I had for breakfast.

And are those....oh no.....LINES on my face?! 

Don't even get me STARTED on my sagging butt. They look like two deflated camel humps.

I had even more reason to bemoan everything pertaining to me, myself and my deflated humps when, in an effort to get a head-start on our move in a month, I lifted a couple pieces of luggage, and then realize a couple hours later....OW.

My arms screamed at me as only triceps that obviously haven't lifted weight of that kind (or any kind, really) could. At first, I didn't know what could cause such pain, until I did a mental check of the past 24 hours of events and realized what caused my arms to feel like a sadistic little arm fairy was pushing hot needles into them.

While laughing maniacally.

And eating my favorite ice cream. Just to mess with my head.

WHAT. Fairies could eat ice cream. Don't look at me like that. I get enough judgment from The Mirror of Atrocious Realities, thankyouverymuch.

Gives a casual wave.

Yea, I know.

Six years is a long time between posts.

But, hey! Good news! This means I'm not dead, as I'm sure some (if there are any left) of the readers of this blog no doubt suspected by now.

The headline would have been fantastic, though...

FORMER BLOGGER STABBED IN THE BACK BY LIFE

It would have made amazing fodder for a documentary, wouldn't it? Or at least a solid case for a lineup on 20/20.

Wait, is 20/20 even around anymore? In my defense, I have a legit reason for not knowing that, I swear. And it has nothing to do with homicide. (Now there's a sentence for you.)

Ok, let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

---Princess Bride quotes? Anyone? ....No? *sigh*---

My story of what's happened over the last six years is way too long to tell, but it warranted me hiding the previous posts from this blog. I debated back and forth whether or not to keep them up here, for content's sake, until I started seriously reading through some of them, and realized...they're all about a life I don't have anymore. They're chock full of tales of a husband that is now divorced (and remarried, for that matter), a dog that is no longer mine, and a home that I no longer live in.

I live in Quito, Ecuador now. Yup. I volunteer here, though my efforts in that arena are soon to come to an end, as my husband and I are planning on moving back to the States sometime next year.

Yes, my husband. (SORRY, I know there's a lot to catch up on...like I said, DOCUMENTARY MATERIAL I AM.) I too got remarried - what, you think my ex is the only one sanctioned for that privilege? I actually met Brent here in Ecuador, a fellow foreigner volunteering. He makes me very very happy, and we are coming up on our one year anniversary this weekend.

Well there you have it, in a nutshell. A very, very tiny, microscopic nutshell, but a nutshell nonetheless. In all honesty, I figured I had three choices when it came to this blog: 1.) Shut it down completely, and start up a new one. 2.) Drink several margaritas while blubbering into my keyboard as I read about times gone long, long by. 3.) Do what I do best...Start over with a clean, fresh start, and continue to laugh all along the way. (I guess the margaritas can come along on that venture too.)

I think I'll go with option 3. What do you think?