My recipe for moving on includes a healthy dose of humor. It has to. Humor got me through, and out of, my relationship with Mark. Humor will do the same for me now. I have to share a funny observation with you.
During this time period, where I had all my hopes pinned on John, there have been a few other fellows who have tried to throw their hat in the ring. They are nice guys. One keeps calling and wants to take me out to dinner and has enthusiastically invited my kids. I saw him recently, when Jen and Will were in tow, and he said, “Hey, kids! How are you? What’s new?” He tries. He might want to try to remember their names next time. He’s funny, creative and outdoorsy.
Another has started writing letters. He is another long distance fellow. The red flags are obvious. I’m not cut out for the long distance stuff. This fellow is sensitive, thoughtful, smart, introspective, interesting and asks me about myself and my life. He doesn’t shy away from talking about kids and shares his own experiences with raising kids. We write back and forth without the pressure of worrying about whether we are liked by the other, or not. That really frees a person up to write whatever they feel or think.
I met another fellow through work. We have similar creative interests, speak the same language about work related stuff and communicate very easily. I remember in one of those conversations, he got sidetracked and asked me about how or when I decided to leave Mark. I felt the strangest sensation when he asked the question. I got the impression that when he asked, he really wanted to hear my answer. He wasn’t just making conversation. I think that must be what it feels like when someone really listens to you.
And the other fellow is someone I’ve known for awhile. We swap stories about kids, skiing, work and life. He’s a pleasant fellow – sensitive, thoughtful, considerate, funny, smart. We have a lot of things in common.
And in all these cases, I’m not the slightest bit interested. I wasn’t looking when John came along, and I’m not looking now. It reminds me too much of shopping. I hate shopping. When I shop, I go by a list, I don’t browse. When I find the thing on my list, I buy it. I don’t compare price. I’ve already spent the time, in advance, figuring out what I want. I’m not going to be swayed by slicker packaging, availability or price. If Ian ever stops roasting his fabulous Snowy Mountain Coffee Beans I’ll be screwed. I’ll quit drinking coffee before I make the quick switch to something else. Then I’ll hope to wander into another coffee shop someday, and taste something that will be worth switching to.
…
I was late sending off a couple letters to the fellow that likes to write long letters. I got this panicky letter from him where he asked if everything was all right. Had he said something to offend me? Was he getting too personal? And then the fellow that shares stories about kids and skiing got a little miffed when I didn’t immediately respond to one of his emails. In both cases, I found myself thinking, “Hey, what’s with the pressure? I’m swamped with raising and home schooling two kids, trying to write, trying to unclog drains, taking kids skiing, cooking dinner and deciding on a dog. I can’t be expected to drop everything to fill your holes.” And then… the 2×4 to the forehead. That’s exactly how John must have felt every time I sent him an email that said, “Where are you?”
The universe has an interesting sense of humor.
Tags: child of narcissist, divorce, humor, life, love, NPD, proactive, survive
