Second chances (Alternate title: I don't want to think about your dog's penis, either)

When I first searched for a couples therapist, I was under the gun, understandably. It was in a crisis phase, a "Find someone or we are done" situation following my infidelity. I found a therapist who was holding an open house that week, and decided to use that meeting as a way to decide if she'd be right for us. I didn't know the things to look for when choosing a therapist, and figured I'd go with my gut feeling.

Long story short, she wasn't right for us. After eight months of weekly sessions, I left with the feeling that we had not made much progress that could be attributed to her advice, which amounted to "going back to the basics" and "Have date nights every week." The sessions felt unfocused and unproductive, without an aim to address the negative patterns that each of us fed into over the years. I side eyed the the book by Dr. Laura Schlessinger that she had in the bookcase of the office where we sat for sessions, and her lack of knowledge of Esther Perel. We stopped seeing her when she revealed that she was leaving her own marriage due to emotional abuse. She was able to point out negative comments from my husband as "jabs" and always advised me to "advocate" for myself, and I wondered how much of that guidance she was following for herself.

Nearly three years after we started seeing her, and after another round of counseling with a more competent couples therapist, I decided to write a review. I felt her couples therapy was a money grab, and while there may not have been any ill intentions, I felt compelled to say something. I gave her two out of five stars, and wrote:

(Therapist) may be more helpful for adolescent, family or individual sessions, but I cannot recommend her for couples therapy. Most of her advice amounted to going on date nights and going "back to the basics," which, if you are there to change the old patterns in your marriage, isn't quite the advice needed. I felt strung along and kept as a client for months without clear goals or structure to the sessions, and at times it felt like my spouse and I were there for her entertainment.

She responded:

For any clients that struggle with emotional intimacy and closeness, continued arguing, and lack of progress, I continue to encourage them to "go back to the basics," and reexplore what helped them develop closeness in the first place. Without mutual respect and understanding it would be highly difficult to work on other issues. Further, I can assure you that there is NOTHING I find entertaining about the complexity of helping individuals, couples and families work through difficult situations!

I didn't even criticize all of her work, just the part of it applicable to me. Usually therapists specialize in an area, especially when they are working with couples. Now, five years later, I had to find someone to see my oldest daughter. I thought, maybe? When my soon to be ex husband asked, "What about (Therapist)?" I took that as permission to proceed. I was hesitant because he did not get along with Therapist. With his suggestion, I reached out.

Admittedly, I felt guilty about leaving that negative review. I hardly ever do that, but felt it was a disservice not to speak up, especially after having been through sessions with a more focused couples therapist. Therapist seemed glad to hear from me, and had an appointment available within a week. "Isn't that a bad sign if she has appointments available?" my soon to be ex husband asked. I thought it was, too, but was willing to overlook it. 

We went to the first appointment, took the half hour in the waiting room to fill out the slew of forms, and then when Therapist appeared, she was very warm and welcoming, and even gave me a side hug and asked how I was doing. Her tan and white pitbull, "Teddy Pendergrass," trotted out to greet us as well, and seemed friendly and not too hyper. I sat in the first 15 minutes of the session to give a brief update on current circumstances and get the spiel on not connecting with Therapist on social media or contacting her by texting. Then I excused myself because I didn't want to interfere with their time.

I sat in the waiting room while an overly fragrant candle burned and 90's R&B blared, presumably to disguise anything that might get discussed behind the paper thin walls of the office where she held her sessions. There were wooden motivational signs all around, some of them related to God, and candy, drinks and snacks available for the taking.  Even if the decor and atmosphere were not really my style, it was warm and welcoming, and I hoped this would work out.

Despite the failed couples therapy, I tried to come up with positive points. She lived close to us so would have a good feel for our environment. She was prior military. Her daughter attended the same high school as my daughter, which I felt would ease some of the explaining my daughter might have to do regarding that environment. She was divorced, and would understand that aspect, too. Maybe the couples therapy seemed pointless but it had been the introduction to someone who might be able to help my daughter, I thought, in that "everything happens for a reason" way we do when trying to find meaning from past events.

We left, and my daughter seemed okay with Therapist and I hoped it would be a matter of warming up. I would be out of town for work for the next session. which I believed would be happening the following Tuesday. When the following Tuesday came, I checked my email and saw a message from Therapist asking when the next session would be, since she could not find it on her calendar. I replied, "It's today, isn't it?" When I re-checked the calendar invitation I saw that it was actually marked for March 28th, not February. Not a hard mistake to make, as the days of both months are in perfect alignment. Meanwhile I was telling my soon to be ex husband to make the drive to Therapist's office, just in case. Well, she wound up replying with an apology for the mix up and telling me my daughter's appointment would be rescheduled for the following day. "It happens to everyone" I said, extending grace.

Following the next appointment, my daughter called. "I don't think I want to go back to Therapist." She said. Upon further investigation, she shared that while waiting in the waiting room for her dad to get her, the dog, Teddy, not only jumped on her leg to hump it, he "finished" - leaving his DNA all over her favorite pair of jeans (insert horrified "scream" face emoji here). I was horrified, and while I have had male dogs before, they were neutered before anything like this could happen. I like dogs, but they aren't for everyone, and I don't think they should be left to run amok in an office where people are seeing you to address their personal psychological issues.

Her dad texted Therapist, but I also emailed her, using really gentle language. 

Hi (Therapist),  I just spoke to Elise and she doesn’t want to continue therapy sessions. Thank you so much for accommodating us, we appreciate it.

Her response:

Sorry, my dog was sniffing her leg and humped it while I was speaking to a couple that showed up unannounced.  I do hope she will reconsider. 

I'm sorry, what?! Not only does she casually downplay her dog humping of my daughter's leg as if it's no big deal, but she also blames a couple (who obviously did not read my review) that showed up unannounced. The grace period was over.

When I talked to (my daughter), her description was much more extensive and she was upset. She stated she’s uncomfortable returning, and I respect how she feels. 

We do love animals and understand they will exhibit certain behaviors, but in a therapy setting, clients are in a vulnerable state and need to feel safe and secure to build trust. I am sure you understand.

As a therapist I would hope she would understand this, but the lack of sensitivity (or even an offer to talk about what happened) in her emailed response seemed to confirm what I sensed and described in my negative review. I paired that with how quickly she was able to make an appointment, her "I do hope she will reconsider" comment and her joking that she remained open for in person sessions and repeatedly got sick throughout the pandemic. The therapists I saw both went virtual as soon as things shut down, and I'd think if you were solid enough at your work, your business would survive that. Sometimes you believe you might have been wrong about someone and you eventually get the opportunity to learn that you probably had them right.

I won't leave another review, as this incident is so specific it would be obvious it was me, so I'm sharing it here. You're welcome!

Bumbling

After I separated from my husband and moved out, the next logical step seemed to be getting myself back out there. I decided to create an online dating profile on Bumble. The app appealed to me because the onus is on the woman to swipe right, and only the woman can initiate messaging. I figured, by giving us the power to choose instead of being chosen, it might be a more amenable experience.

I lasted a week.

The free version of the app allowed you to build a profile that consisted of six photos, and a selection of ways to describe yourself, to include sharing your political views, your education level, life habits, zodiac sign, religion and whether you have kids and want more, or not. There were also a few prompts that gave a "fun facts about me" vibe, and finally, you shared your geographical location. It seemed like you could provide just enough information to pique interest while leaving room for some mystery.

I reached out to four people (remember, I can only message those I selected who also matched with me, and I had to initiate). Two didn't respond at all. In one case, it was brief, as this guy wanted to find "the one" and have babies, and that is not my goal. We were kind to each other and wished each other well. The last one messaged back, and this went on for a few days until it felt too tedious to continue. He went between trying unsuccessfully to initiate sexy talk (Me: It's rainy and gray today and I just want to take a nap. Him: Rain is sexy), or commenting that his son was home and hungry so he was going to cook him some wings (Yeah, I get it, teen boys have bottomless pits for stomachs), or a glimpse on his actual opinion about how the pandemic and society's reaction to it was pretty disappointing and disastrous. I tried to cut him loose and got a bit of a sob story about him not finding love, and out of pity, I stuck around, only to get more lame sexy talk and comments about having to cook wings for his son. I eventually disabled my account. I am sure this guy was perfectly fine and I was the problem, and more specifically that these kinds of apps are not compatible with my style of getting to know and feel interested in men.

In my week of scrolling, I saw countless car selfies (suspect), plenty of listings of "Tacos" as a favorite food (hairy variety, no doubt - I'm surprised no one said "clams"), and worst of all, the statement "No Drama," which I took as a way of telling someone to shut up before you even exchange words. One guy had every photo of himself posed with a wide-eyed open-mouthed expression, his rendition of Blue Steel. I couldn't tell if that was a joke or an honest attempt at looking attractive and sensual. There's a lot of scrolling to do before finding someone that has an inkling of potential to be someone you might want to meet.

During my swiping, I found my husband's profile. I figured he downloaded the app because our shared subscription probably showed that I had downloaded it. In one last ditch attempt to see if I cared (I didn't), when we were still living together, he admitted to downloading Tinder and creating a profile. I took screenshots of his description of himself on Bumble. It's always interesting when you know someone intimately, to see what they decide to show to the public. Most of it was accurate, and some of it was not appealing (if you brag about having long work hours, I'm not impressed, or interested, and I'm wondering what you're trying to prove).

I don't know why I bothered with any of it, except that I miss the connection of going out once in awhile, and it might have been fun to find a person I could meet up with on occasion. I like going to movies and being able to lean my head on a shoulder, or going to dinner and flirting. I miss feeling attraction, and at the same time, the app seems so limited, and flat. Someone's poor description of themselves might cause me to overlook them entirely, or choosing someone might result in conversation that goes nowhere. I don't have the time, inclination or patience, and swiping through people like I'm shopping on Amazon feels really icky to me. It's another version of having to kiss a lot of frogs before finding a prince. What we don't say is, maybe no one needs a prince after all.

Goodbye and...?

 Last week at work, we learned that one of us had found a new job and would be leaving for greener pastures. His predecessor had also left the job in a similar manner. We can't seem to keep that position filled, and hopefully the next person stays awhile longer.

I suspect the person leaving has a crush. That is not my ego speaking, it is nearly 48 years of finally becoming observant enough to pick up on the cues. When we aren't on a project together, he makes a point to peek into my office in the morning and again in the afternoon, usually a "good morning" and "See you tomorrow?" type thing. He complimented me on my smile once. He's subtle but I get that feeling.

After our staff meeting when our manager made the announcement, the person leaving stopped by my office with a little small talk and some mention that he needed to talk to me, with a little joking about making things awkward. He didn't elaborate, and I didn't ask. Stay tuned!

I don't want to think about your penis

Flirting is a tricky thing. I remember a conversation with someone distinguishing what counted as harassment and what counted as welcome flirtation, and my opinion was, the distinction is based on whether the person receiving the attention wants it, or not. I know that admission offers fodder to anyone who feels entitled to consideration by anyone they encounter, and it feeds into that idea that you can get away with anything as long as you're attractive and charismatic enough to bend the limits of what is considered appropriate.

The title of this post is based on that long standing assumption that the mention of a man's foot size corresponds to his penis size. In a fairly unprofessional environment where I no longer work, one guy would regularly ask one of my coworkers his shoe size until one day the coworker responded in exasperation, "I wear a size 9 and I have a small penis" (I cannot will not confirm or deny this). I remember joking in college with someone I was head over heels for, when he said "You know what they say about a man who has big feet," and on cue, I quipped, "He wears big shoes!" For the first time in my life I'd achieved perfect comedic timing, and with my crush, no less. We laughed and laughed. I can confirm he was well endowed, but also extremely popular, funny, and contrary to what all of that implies, terribly insecure.

When I briefly went out with a former coworker a year and a half ago, I noticed he made mention that his feet were "DDD" - wide. He favored basketball shoes outside of the steel toed work boots he'd worn at our site, and paired with his not so tall stature, they looked a bit like clown shoes. I never understood bragging about the width, except that he could have been alluding to the girth of his peen. Every time he raised the topic, I felt revolted, because when you don't like someone that way, you don't want to think of anything except a Ken doll situation in their pants. That alone should have been a sign for me to cut my losses, but I stubbornly hung on. When he finally self imploded via text, I felt relieved it was done, and best of all, that I no longer had to hear about the width of his feet and experience the corresponding unwelcome thought of his penis. 

Solving for X

When the pandemic started, I initially believed I would finally read all of the books I'd been meaning to read, which of course, didn't happen. I didn't learn a new language or become a skilled baker. Years late to the game, I started listening to podcasts. 

I can't do audiobooks, my attention scatters and I lose the plot, but shorter listening commitments aren't too challenging for me. I subscribed to a lot of love story related podcasts at first. One was the New York Times Modern Love podcast. At the end of 2020, while living separated in my house, was episode #256, "Desire is Never the Mistake.

The narrator describes a story of flirtation, and the magic of being made to feel special, followed by disappointment and shame. The lesson in all of it, "Allow yourself to want things, no matter the risk of disappointment. Desire is never the mistake."

In the epilogue to the essay, the narrator informs us that her life is full, complete with a husband, kids, a minivan and a mortgage payment. She kept allowing herself to want things, and was rewarded with her happy ending.

Following this essay from 2007, there is present day interview with the author, Paula McLain. Before getting into the update to the update, she summarizes her childhood in foster care after being abandoned by her parents. Her belongings were in a black plastic trash bag, and every time she entered a new home with new "parents" she would have to figure out how to be tolerated by them. It meant being polite, consuming food that she may not have liked, doing whatever was necessary to avoid offending these strangers she she could feel safe.

The way she described that made so much sense. When we are young, not all of us are loved in ways that allow us to be ourselves. We have to learn personalities, and figure out how to survive in the circumstances we didn't have the agency to change. When you grow up, and do have greater control over your life, how do you break out of that mindset when it seems like we are programmed for it? How do we even recognize we are doing it? How do we embrace this idea that desire is never the mistake while we are simultaneously taught to appreciate what we have? How do we learn to be grateful for our lives as they and also accept that it is okay to long for something different?

On the other side of it, we scold ourselves for being cautious. "Do it scared!" "Shoot your shot!" "Ships were not meant to stay in a harbor!" Someone will be there to spout off a snappy quote and judge you, no matter which way you go.

In the interview, the author revealed she was no longer married, and in her words, she chose to divorce because she "was bigger than the marriage was allowing her to be." It's a bold statement for a woman. We aren't supposed to want to be "bigger." We are supposed to erase our names, shrink into "Mrs.," and settle into the wholesomeness of familyhood. We are supposed to be content with the husband, kids, minivan and mortgage, but what if we discover we're not? Then you're selfish, guilty of the sin of "wanting to have it all." How do you stop consuming a life you don't actually like? 

The author shared that this essay had been released before launching her bestselling book, and that her decision, which she admitted felt scary at the time, had allowed her to prioritize her career. She was also celibate in an effort to stop what she called "solving for X." X was the promise of a safe, secure, fulfilled, joyful existence. Following the approved equation - the things we are told result in obtaining X, do not always result in achieving X. By being alone, she prevented herself from making the error of laying blame on a partner for failing to provide her with the elusive X. She closed by saying, "Security is only being able to live with yourself as you are, and like all the parts of yourself without turning away."

It was a timely message at the close of 2020, a year we had started out feeling fairly normal. We eventually learned how flimsy everything was, our healthcare, our schools, our need to protect each other from a virus that ranged from mild to fatal, depending on the circumstances of individuals who caught it. We had started off hoarding toilet paper and baking bread - physical things representing comfort and nourishment. We virtuously wanted to make this extended time at home into an opportunity without recognizing how hard it would be, and how much from the "before times" we would miss. So many of us wanted keep up the distractions long enough to make it back to normal life, while simultaneously learning that the safety and security --the "X"-- of "normal" life was an illusion. 

With the busy-ness of the old life gone, I had no choice but to look at myself and re-assess my existence. I hung onto podcasts to thwart loneliness as I worked from home in one of the bedrooms in a house full of loved ones and a marriage I wanted to end. Like Paula McLain, I was afraid to make that choice. Why wasn't what I had working for me? Why didn't I feel more grateful? What's wrong with me?

I've listened to that podcast episode at least a half dozen times now, feeling the hurt and heartbreak of that holiday story every time. The interview with the author that followed is the real lesson, that there is no formula for X, no narrow path to achieve a safe, secure, happy life, and that is freedom.

Two years ago

 On Christmas Eve, my phone showed a prompt to look back at memories from two years ago. I usually ignore the prompt and continue with my day, but the first picture in the series was of the bed in the basement room of the house where I used to live. The headboard was made by my mother's father, and the night tables match my dresser, part of an antique set that my mom insisted on buying in the '80's. The bedspread was orange, and the sheets were reddish purple, a set my mom kept on her bed before she died, and in the center of the foot of my bed was my cat, the only thing there that migrated from that bed to my current one. 

I slept there because I was separated from my husband in my own house. At first, it started with him moving into the basement, complete with silent treatment. When he decided he wanted to talk, I said I wanted to separate. I had voiced that I was on the fence multiple times, and this time I was definitive. It was two days before my birthday, and I decided I didn't want to "work on it" anymore. I didn't want to owe anymore. I did not want the conflict of fitting myself into a marriage that seemed to make everyone else comfortable except me. 

Several days later he set up a Zoom call with friends to celebrate my birthday, later claiming he was still in denial over everything. But that wasn't the point, either. The zoom call was not my style, it was something forced on me, something I hated. I don't like surprises or being the center of attention, or having a cast of thousands acknowledge me. I just want the few special people in my circle, whose connections I've cultivated, to know me, love me, and accept me (and check me when it's needed).

It seemed like yet another glaring reminder that we were attached, but not connected. That he was big on grand gestures that made him look good, without asking himself if it was what I wanted. My sister was the one to warn me about the call, the same way she warned me about the surprise baby shower he tried to throw for me when our first kid was on the way. She knew me, and knew I'd hate this flavor of  celebration. 

In the first couples therapy session after I told him I wanted to separate, the couples therapist kept reminding him that only one person has to want out for the marriage to end. There was no mutuality needed. One person wanted out, and that was enough. This was how many of our sessions went. He would have an issue, and she would gently remind him. He often claimed that she was taking my side. Or, that someone else (or the therapist) had influenced my decision to leave. It was often that way, his idea that I didn't have a mind of my own, and other voices were what solidified my choices. 

After that session, he insisted that I tell him about all of the ways he messed up during the course of our relationship. It was the first time he'd actually heard me. We were the classic case of one partner committing a massive, fatal stab wound while the other made their partner bleed out slowly with the survivable but ever present pain of a thousand papercuts. 

I had an affair, which was the thing big enough to land us in couples therapy. I don't mean to sound casual about that, it wasn't. It was devastating, hurtful, destructive and deceitful. It's also more common than anyone wants to admit. It's the thing that will make your spouse never look at you quite the same again. I make no excuses for myself, as there are better, more responsible, less damaging ways to address your issues before heading down that path. My own actions rendered me voiceless for a long time. I didn't feel I had a right to stand up for myself or ask for what I needed, or be the one to leave the marriage, after what I did. If I brought up "old shit," my audacity to even bring it up would be met with incredulity, and in one instance, a hole punched into the headboard at six in the morning. But is "old shit" old shit if it's never resolved to satisfaction? Is it really "old shit" if it keeps repeating?

I finally voiced the "old shit" and he listened, claiming he'd never realized it was all connected, or that it was damaging and hurtful to me. In his mind, his offenses "one offs," and then, in his mind, the couple kisses and makes up. In my mind, "make up" means the problem is resolved enough for both parties to actually want to kiss again. When I'd get angry before, I'd be dismissed as jealous or overreacting, petty, and once, "spiteful." Now something was at stake for him, and he listened. Now that I was on the edge of the cliff, screaming, he finally saw and heard me.

That was a pattern this couples therapist saw immediately. A parent-child pattern, was what she called it. The "parent" in the relationship acts a certain way and the "child" acts out in response. If I'd pointed out an issue in a calmer fashion, it was brushed off. Not serious, not a big deal. If it escalated into yelling, and obvious upset, then it was something to be taken seriously. I didn't want it to be that way, and here we were again, with me saying I wanted to separate, and him finally taking it seriously, despite months of me admitting I was on the fence. It was fitting, one last confirmed display of that old established pattern. Something about that made me feel despair. Even in this last ditch communication, I had to go to exhaustive measures to be heard and taken seriously.

He'll always claim he was blindsided. And, because he would throw the empty threat of divorce into an argument, that he assumed I was doing the same, not remembering that I didn't operate like that. It was also a way of completely disregarding that I had maintained a deeply intimate relationship with someone else for a long time, and if that isn't an indicator that someone has a foot out of the door, I'm not sure what else to say.

I didn't intend for this post to pan out how it did. I was going to do a comparison of that basement bedroom photo with the progress I've made, the house I've bought, the new, bright and peaceful place where I sleep, and the lack of regret over my decision to move out.

I’m not sharing this to make my marriage to look bad, or to say I regret getting married. What I learned recently, it isn’t about getting everything right in the relationship, but how the couple repairs together. When he said or did something  that felt harmful, and I pointed it out, he would see it as an attack and defend himself, and sometimes blame his reaction on me. Getting acknowledgement like, "I see how it can feel that way" was an impossible feat. I had made the grave mistake of believing his sensitivity equaled the ability to be empathetic.

Marriage isn't terrible. It can be beautiful when both partners respect and support each other, and have founded their connection on friendship. I question if I ever had a friendship with my husband. It certainly didn't feel like any of my other friendships. Sometimes it felt like a competition, or like he had to bring me down a few pegs, or side with someone else if I came to him with a personal conflict. He would always argue this with, "Do you trust me with your life?" which sounds monumental, but it's a cheap question. We trust strangers with our lives. If I can't reliably share something with you and trust that you can see and validate my perspective, or feel that you are in my corner, even if you disagree, then I can't trust you as my life partner. Others may be able to do this, as these things roll off of them, but I need that, and wanting that isn't too much.

Even COVID didn't stop a pushy door-to-door salesperson

After over two years of dodging COVID-19, I caught it. I'm guilty of attending several indoor social gatherings without a mask after being vaccinated and boosted. I have to say peer pressure, even at almost 47 years old, plays a role here. But I didn't catch it during an optional fun social gathering. I caught it at a fairly large work meeting, which I volunteered to attend to brief a presentation.

In retrospect, all of that seems like a bad idea. I had to drive to a different location, sit in a large conference room with people all day, and worst of all, be the last speaker of the day. I'm an introvert and I like routine. None of this makes sense, but I did it, and what was my reward? A hot scratchy throat, sneezing, body aches and a positive COVID test. 

I self reported to the Maryland website and received instructions to isolate for five days. Hermit permit granted, I guess.

In the evening of day two of feeling like crap, the doorbell rang. I'm in a three story townhouse, so even if I rushed to get to the door from my third floor bedroom, it would take awhile. I looked out of my second story front windows to see if there was a vehicle to indicate some sort of delivery, but there was nothing. Then I heard them use the door knocker. And finally, impatiently, a loud cutesy "Shave and a haircut" rap at the door. 

I cracked the door wearing pajamas and my KN95 mask. It was a young male person with brown curly hair in that signature uniform of people who go door to door on summer evenings. They carry clipboards or electronic tablets, wearing sweat-wicking polo shirts with the company logo, and khakis. The goal is to inform you of a problem they noticed with your house, that a neighbor has used their services, and if they can just have some of your time, they can give you an estimate, and usually a few discounts *if you act soon* on the estimate for the solution to the problem that you didn't even know was a problem until they graced your doorstep.

What was it going to be? I needed new siding? Windows? A roof? It didn't matter. I stood in the cracked doorway and stated: "I have COVID. This isn't a good time."

Any normal human being would have said thank you and walked away. These are not normal human beings. They are fueled by pushy desperation and the effects of being subjected to the heat and humidity of the midAtlantic summer. He kept talking.

"A neighbor... I noticed spiders on your house... something something."

I was incredulous. He was still trying to steal my time, and willing to put himself at risk of catching COVID to do so! Aside from that, my house is situated in what should be the woods, so there will be spiders. And, I like spiders. 

"Please don't do this to me," I said. "Go to the next house, please."

He looked miffed. It wasn't like I removed my mask and coughed in his face. I was trying to do both of us a favor.

"Okay, enjoy" he said in a "Whatever" tone of voice.

Yeah, thanks, I really enjoy being sick. I shut the door with a little more force than necessary and locked it for emphasis.

I'm getting better now. My daily text from Maryland told me it's okay to stop isolating, but I'll savor my time indoors awhile longer.