The General and I were having our usual Sunday morning coffee discussion group today (only 2 people permitted, dressing gowns required) and listening to a superb documentary about “grey divorce” which caused us to sit exchanging (sometimes worried glances) as women discussed either having to leave their partners of many decades or being left themselves, each terrifying for different reasons. Of course, for the person who leaves, that ‘terror’ is often closer to excitement: the beginning of something new and a totally fresh start sponged clean of predictability, routine and the other assorted shackles of family life.
I’ve often thought that if I had ever become an English teacher it would have been interesting to analyze the lyrics of songs as class assignments. So many songs are poetry in their own right (I’m looking at you Diamonds and Rust) but will never be recognized as such; at least not in that respected canon of what really counts.
(And whilst I don’t envision Harold Bloom excitedly rushing home to tease out the classical allusions buried within ‘Can’t Feel My Face’ anytime soon, the thing is, that song lyrics often assume a separate meaning for listeners than the original writer may have intended for himself).
And that is, simply part of the art.
(If you are reading this, Spock, you might just want to stop and do something else for a while, say, heave quietly. My brother is not good with tolerating anything that he considers to verge on Touchy-Feely-Eat-Pray-Love s**t …)
I often recall a line from a truly great poem called ‘Liar’ by Lynne Crosbie in which she notes that ‘expectation is synonymous with the worst arrogance.’
This is something I often think of when I recall my innocent, totally secure, married self.
I assumed that my long term, contented happiness was static – I expected it. I’m still ashamed, embarrassed; but don’t all people who are in love feel that way and especially when that love has expanded and grown even stronger over the years? I do see now that it really was a kind of arrogance and unfortunately I can never think this way again or feel so safe.
And safe is the perfect word.
Since my husband (I will never call him My Ex – even though he now is) left us I continue to struggle with aligning my personality to what happened.
None of the popular options available (angry.bitter.regretful.devastated.accepting) seem palatable and after a number of years, indifference still seems elusive.
I’ve observed some women “moving on” perhaps more traditionally, by re-inventing themselves with a new tattoo or job or hair colour; swopping man-bashing stories whilst enjoying tequila shooters with other Divorced Friends and peppering the conversation with recently learned terms such as “crazy-making behaviour,” “borderline” and “narcissist.” As one of my brothers wryly observed it’s funny how years ago people were just assholes.
