Reinvent Ever After

The day after Christmas, 2014, I sat on the soft blue couch in my townhome, watching the twinkling lights of our tree. Three desolate days without my little girls stretched before me. Echoes of their delighted voices Christmas morning lingered in the shadows of the empty room, bags of torn wrapping-paper the only hint that joy had lived here just twenty-four hours earlier.

There was writing to do and errands and laundry. All the tasks I busied myself with when the girls were gone with their dad. Yet, I was tired and restless at the same time, feeling as if I wanted to crawl out of my own skin, or take a nap for a week, or exhaust myself with hard exercise. Something, anything, that would shift my circumstance. I was lonely. It was the holidays that made it worse, made all that was lost that much more stark. Solitude had settled heavy between my shoulders. It defined me. Divorced. Alone. Perhaps, worst of all, whispered from the darkest of places in my very human heart: unlovable.

I was trying to meet someone. Instead of curling up in my house and watching BBC television, my preferred method of coping with this strange new world I found myself in, I’d ventured out into the world of online dating. I did it like I do everything—all the way in. Go big or go home. I’d been on countless first dates, and had several short relationships, but nothing was right. Nothing was even close to right. The several men I dated for any length of time eventually revealed damage too deep to participate in a healthy relationship. Toss some crazy ex-wives in the mix and anything close to what I was looking for in a partner dissolved before my eyes. Regardless, I refused to settle. I suspected this choice made the possibility of finding someone to share my life with nearly impossible, but I’d spent the last ten years in a fog and I was not about to let it take me down ever again. I was living on my own terms. No compromises. I would write books. I would look for love. I would raise my girls to roar at fear.

And yet, I despaired. As I stared into the lights of my Christmas tree, I wondered if my life would get better or if this was as good as it gets? My forty-fifth birthday was six weeks away. How much longer would I be even remotely attractive? There were wrinkles and extra flesh around my middle and breasts that had seen better days. I feared my longing for love was futile. I was old, used-up, invisible.

But that old friend hope still lived in my chest. She called out from the darkness. Do not give up. Your happy-ever-after is out there somewhere. Maybe at this very moment he’s looking for you and despairing. If you give up, he’ll never find you.

So, I did something a little crazy. I went on yet another online dating sight. I sat on that blue couch and filled out another profile, with Mittens on my lap, the Cascades lit with rare December sun outside my windows. In that action was a decision. I would keep trying. Hope conquered fear.

The evidence is on my Facebook wall.

December 26, 2014.

“I’m going on Tinder, people. Pray for me.”

My friends, bless them all, sent me notes of encouragement, but mostly caution. Tinder is a hook-up site. It’s for young people looking for booty calls.

“Research and fodder, at the very least,” I replied.

Weeks went by. Life moves forward, like it does, with all the losses and gains and things in-between. On a cold day in early February I drove across town to meet a widower and father of two teenaged boys named Cliff. He was forty-four, lived in Sammamish and worked at Microsoft. A pool player and a runner. A Seahawks fan. His profile was clever, and although I couldn’t see exactly what he looked like from his two terrible photographs, I decided to give him a chance, mostly because he made me laugh during our text exchanges.

His first text: “Are you through the six stages of grief over the Super Bowl loss?”

I wasn’t, but that’s another story.

He asked me to dinner, not coffee or drinks. Bold! I like bold.

That night, I shivered as I walked across the parking lot to the restaurant, the cold wind shooting up my skirt, despite the Spanx that wrapped around my middle like a python. When I entered the restaurant, I scanned the foyer, but didn’t see him. I stood near the hostess podium, waiting. He was late. Maybe he wouldn’t show? Why had I gotten out of my warm pajamas and left the house? I could be watching “Downton Abbey” instead of standing in this cold restaurant waiting for some guy I probably wouldn’t like.

I started shaking, like when you’re a kid and you’re either excited or scared. I clamped my teeth together, afraid they would start to chatter. To this day, I cannot explain this strange physical reaction.

Five minutes later, he walked through the doors, apologetic for his tardiness. He’d gone to the wrong restaurant. In hindsight, this is ironic, because he never makes mistakes like that one. I do. A lot. Cliff’s organized and methodical. He makes spreadsheets and lists. He does not fly by the seat of his proverbial pants, as I do.

Almost immediately, he made me laugh. Extremely intelligent, he also seemed unusually forthright. We talked easily, mostly because I kept asking questions, intuiting his introversion. My romantic notion is that sometime during that fateful dinner, I knew in my bones he was the one. The one I’d been waiting for. My person. I often perceive the world with words, like a narrative in my head. That night, the word “home” in old typewriter font appeared before my eyes over and over. That word, home, so close in letters to my old friend hope.

A little over a year later, he proposed to me as we sat on a blanket in his backyard. He said that falling in love with me almost made him believe in soulmates. I do believe in soulmates and I know he is mine. We fit together in that way that’s inexplicable. It just is.

Fast-forward to now. It’s Christmas again, but this year I do not sit alone on a blue couch with loneliness as my companion. On my wedding finger, diamonds outshine the Christmas lights. We have twice as much torn wrapping-paper because we have four kids and five cats between us. Our house is chaotic, bursting with the energy and activities of three teenagers and one adorable ten-year-old. And Cliff? He’s, quite simply, remarkable in every way. My wounds have healed with the touch of his gentle hands. And, I’m in love. Crazy in love like the characters in my books. I have the bond I knew existed for others, but that I didn’t think I would ever experience. I got my happy-ever-after. I’ve been in love before, but not like this. Not where I feel seen, understood and loved for exactly who I am. I no longer feel unlovable.

My father said after meeting him. “How is it possible you found a man like a character from one of your books?”

Against all odds, we found one another. I still have nightmares where there is no Cliff and the future is dark and desolate. When I wake, and see his sleeping form next to me, I cannot believe my fortune. He is there: solid, steady, strong. I hope we have another forty years together, but when you meet in your mid-forties, the reality is that we might not. Regardless of how many days we have left together, it will not be enough. I will always want just one more.

I write novels about people getting a second chance in love, or career, or the pursuit of a dormant dream. I suppose all writers have a recurring theme, and this is certainly mine. Ultimately, no matter the number of disappointments I’ve had in love and career, a word called hope wriggles its way into my heart and pushes me to try again.

Our aspirations morph as years unfold. What we wanted in our youth does not always follow into middle-age as the years bring both joy and defeat. I once thought that a life in the theatre was all I wanted, but I know now that I am a writer. So simple, yet so evasive—finding this connection to your soul’s work. I believe the way to find great love and great work, is to remain connected to the part of ourselves that chooses extraordinary over good-enough and to take risks and continue to hope, instead of curling up in our comfortable pajamas because it feels too hard to be out there fighting. What I know from my own experiences is that it is never too late to try again, to remain optimistic, to dream of a day when your burdens are lessoned, or to long for something or someone that conventional wisdom says will never come. Those voices lie. Second chances do arrive. Sometimes they show up five minutes late, but they eventually come. In those five minutes, do not despair, do not let fear trump hope.

Love is always worth waiting for.

During these tumultuous times, sharing hopeful stories is more important than ever. I’m interested in your stories of second chances, whether in love or career or family. Please write to me so I can share them with my readers.

#ReInventEverAfter