I spoke to an old friend the other day, and lightly let slip a rather critical assessment of a long-ago ex. My words were clever yet cutting – I lamented how it was unlikely he was ever going to reconstitute into a reasonable facsimile of a man.
My friend laughed, yet the barb, which I offered as a verifiable truth, is anything but funny. It’s the lingering byproduct of hurt and anger, and actually leaves me sad and defeated. It’s not the whole truth – possibly not even near a part of the truth – even if it seems it at times.
I want so much more for the people I once loved. I want them to be smart and successful, guys who have smart and kind and funny wives, who participate meaningfully in raising their children, who have kept a delicate balance between work and play. Guys who make a difference in their chosen professions. Guys who are now, as they were then, great catches. They simply were not able to build a life with me. Guys I caught, then released.
I’d rather think of my past as peopled with success stories, not failures. It doesn’t do me any good to string together a line of boys/men (and boy-men) who no one else wanted, or who were somehow not up to the task of being partnered with a strong, intelligent, independent woman who valued education, productive work, and still wanted a vibrant home life. A history of failures that I was (and am) so much better without has a form of self-serving logic to it, but ultimately is a tragic narrative.
Failures beget failures. If I had a past peopled by idiots, insensitive clouts, lug heads and douche bags (one of my least favorite term for loser boys, but at least better than the term I will not write here), what would it say about me? I’d rather think I was a great catch. What is more likely is that I was just a catch, neither great nor tragic. I was a mixed bag of strengths and insecurities, traits that drew in literate, funny, creative, kind, smart people and still managed to push them away at times. When you drink from the trough of unpopularity, you’re not supposed to be choosy.
Fortunately, my history is not awash with losers. My exes were basically good guys who were, like me, on the outside of full social acceptance – not because they were the worst or ugliest or gangliest or dopiest or stupidest of the guys, but because they had thoughts and emotions and goals and ambitions and senses of humor that made them just the tiniest bit softer than the guys who covered up all these traits and barreled through adolescence and young adulthood as if they were made of stone. There was even a guy who played football; imagine – a girl like me with a high school football player. Something was amiss in this pairing, the world quickly righted itself, and it didn’t last long. There was the best looking guy who’d ever paid me attention, and I knew that if we ever got together the union would last only moments, but I am none the worse for those moments. My self-esteem was permanently raised by the desire of this capable, corporeal Nick Nolte look-alike handyman with an IQ right smack dab in the center of the normal curve.
I’d like to wear rose-colored glasses from here on out. It’s not denial, as I know exactly what life looks like when I take them off. I’d like to under-recognize the flaws in everyone around me. I’ve made a deal with my husband that I don’t want to have a single conversation that starts with, alludes to, or creatively implies my failures. Or his. Unless he or I construct some new gaping holes in our personalities or learn something actually revelatory about ourselves, I’m good with what we know. Even if there are more flaws and limitations to be plumbed, even if there are crazy-making traits that we’ve somehow overlooked and are seeing only the tip of the shortcomings iceberg, I declare we’re full up on knowing anything more about what’s wrong with each of us.
It’s a matter of priorities. I’m a better person when I understand the absolute truth that I am more than my flaws; I’m also exquisitely aware of when those flaws come peeking (or bulldozing) through. Same with my mate, my child, my friends, my exes, even my former beloved Labrador retriever. In the end, I’d prefer to be the person who linked together a string of amazing, creative, loving, kind relationships that weathered the hullabaloo of flaws meeting flaws, weaknesses evoking self-protective maneuvers and defenses. I don’t need anyone to be less than they are.
What would that long-ago ex look like through these rose-colored glasses? Like a guy who did the best with the cards he got dealt. Like a guy who suffered more disappointments than successes in life, and who might not actually attain a satisfying life. Like what might have happened to me if I’d been less fortunate and had a lifetime filled with these kind of relationships rather than the life I have had, filled with bright, eager, generous, strong people who love life. He hurt me, indeed. The flawed me remembers that more than anything else. Yet this doesn’t erase the magic and beauty he holds inside.
We met, we loved. His flaws met my flaws. He has not recovered from the pain he inflicted on me. Eons later, I hope to. Catch and release.