Going Fishing

My kids found out that we had separated when they opened the Plenty of Fish app on my husband’s cell phone, thinking it was a game.  I’ll tell you more about that shortly. Then again, maybe I won’t. You can imagine how that went down. Yes, it was awful. Let’s just say that our kids did not nominate us for the Parents of the Year award.

I set up a dating profile just out of curiosity; to see what this new and exciting world of singledom had to offer from which I could choose. I was also secretly hoping that I might see someone I already know who I always thought was cute and now he is single too and he used to want to ask me out but he was too shy and oh my god we have so much in common this is totally gonna happen. That totally didn’t happen.

The pickings were slim, to be honest, but I probably set my standards too high and narrowed my search too much. I did not cast my Plenty of Fish net wide enough. Over time I was contacted by many men (and one couple) who thought I sounded intriguing. Some of these men obviously had nothing of substance to say as well as hugely over-inflated egos because they sent me pictures of their you-know-what. Unsolicited. Unwelcome. Uncool. And one of them, whose hand was holding what he just knew was a magnificent obelisk of lust and passion upon which I would surely want to mount and ride like a bronco, had dirty fingernails. I notice that stuff.

Strangers were asking me what I was wearing, my cup size, and whether or not I liked to wear nylons (because, and I quote, “I loooooooove nylons! Love ‘em!”). One man said that he is orally bi-curious and would I like to explore that with him? Someone said I had cute dimples, others complimented my hair, but most of them just wanted to have a dirty chat. That grows tiresome within seconds.  I have an open and adventurous mind, but dirty talk with an anonymous stranger doesn’t do it for me. One night I was checking through the listing of my latest matches when a gorgeous, familiar face looked me in the eye and smiled. I knew immediately who he was. I knew that his profile would be articulate, witty, and charming, and that he likely was overwhelmed with requests from the female Plenty of Fish barracudas whose swarming behavior around good-looking bachelors resembles a deep fryer when a basket of fries is lowered into the oil. This man was about to become a very busy man requiring quick development of the skill to chat with many women at once, remember who was who, and never lose the train of thought in any of the conversations.  This man was a good catch. He was a handsome, well-educated professional with a lovey smile.   This man was my ex-husband. What hit me was not just one emotion but a loud crash of heavy boxes falling to the floor. I was deeply sad knowing that someone else would enjoy his charming conversational skills and undivided attention. I was slightly amused that he was presented as a good match given my profile and our clear incompatability. But most of all, I was crushed that all the pictures he had in his profile were ones that I had taken of him during happy moments in our marriage. The person he was smiling at in all those pictures was me. And now, he was smiling at everyone except me. I cried for hours that night. And the next night too.

I can’t even remember how long the crying lasted. I cried for my children and how their whole world was turning upside down. I cried because I thought I had failed. I cried because I was lonely and had felt lonely for years. I cried because I was, all of a sudden, alone. I cried when I was going through our belongings to get organized for the change we were about to make, each item I picked up a memory of the only life I had known for nearly two decades. I silently cried myself to sleep every night and sobbed with abandon uncontrollably when I was in my car alone. I got shitfaced drunk and cried like a baby while listening to Adele. Then, one day, I stopped crying.