I met the man of my dreams. Really … me! At thirty-nine years old, I finally found him. Tall, handsome, funny, had his stuff together, smart—everything I could possibly ask for.
The night I met him I sat across the table from him thinking, This is it … We ate, talked, laughed. He told the waitress he couldn’t have been more lucky. She thought we knew each other for years. Needless to say, I was nervous as hell. I got shitfaced. Woke up the next day at his house! OMG! And would you believe he saw me again? That’s how we started. Together almost every day for the next nine months. Met each other’s families. Went to Mexico. It was a dream. He was by my side through my father’s death. I couldn’t have asked for more.
But I got more. His ex-wife. She started showing up where we spent our time, at his boat. I started hearing about how she was unhappy. (Was I supposed to care?) I am happy. Finally, she planted herself one weekend at the end of the dock his boat was on. We couldn’t help but walk past her. I didn’t know who she was. She introduces herself. I shake her hand. We keep walking. Later she bends his ear for a good hour. To make a long story short, we leave, come back, and she drives by us and flips him off. By the time we get back to the marina parking lot, she’s back! “I want to talk to the two of you,” she says. “He wasn’t fulfilling as a husband …” at which time I excuse myself. She rips into him for another hour. Needless to say, this completely ruins our weekend. I don’t know what was said, nor do I think I want to.
A week later, he tells me he needs space. This was a month ago. I ask him if he wants to get back with her and he tells me he doesn’t know what he wants. Now keep in mind that she’s dating the guy she cheated on him with.
