The Unlikely Way I Met My Husband
I adore my husband.
I’ve had a life that’s been short on love. Massive childhood trauma will do that to you. And when incest is the “love” you knew as a kid, it’ll set you back some. Without quite a bit of serious therapy, the combination is a sure-fire, can’t-miss killer for any chance at a normal relationship. I’m not even sure that I knew what love even was until the birth of my second child. Natural childbirth and nursing, it turns out, seem to turn on internal switches that generate what I believe is called maternal love, which is, as it turns out, one of the most powerful emotions on earth. Surprised the heck out of me.
I couldn’t tell you if my first husband — my children’s father — loved me. I’d married him to get myself out of the dating circuit. I had been making such poor decisions when it came to men that I was putting myself in harm’s way on a pretty regular basis, so when I happened to come across a man who seemed almost normal but also wanted to marry me, I said ‘yes’ lickety split. He was smart, he was handsome, he had a good job… so what if his idea of impressing me on our first date was to shoot a crossbow into his closet just to show me how it worked. It was nighttime. It was January. Where else was he going to shoot it? He hadn’t aimed it at me ‘fust for fun’ which was a plus in my book.
So, we had sex on the kitchen counter and the next day he drove me home specifically to meet my parents and to ask my father for my hand in marriage. He was an old-fashioned guy at heart. We managed to stay married for 14 years, no thanks to me. Severely emotionally traumatized by childhood events that I would not remember for another 20 years or so, I managed to screw things up royally by screwing other men locally. He was a good and patient man, my first husband, and I don’t blame him for taking our children from me when we divorced; it was the best thing he could have done for them. I was no fit parent and neither was the man I was leaving them for.
My second husband had also been reared on a dearth of love. He, like I, had been abused as a child although in his case, the abuse had consisted of frequent and severe beatings. This grown up beaten child cared entirely and only for himself. To him, I was simply a possession, as I would discover when I became ill with an exceedingly painful disease that had tightened the skin everywhere on my body with a vengeance, partially crippling me, and was supposed to end my life. He did not care what I thought or what I felt. The only thing he cared about was that he had access to my body. The pain I was already in made no difference to him. My easily apparent agony and my pleading made no difference. So there was that, that, and the fact that I made enough income working for myself, out of our home to enable him to squander it playing the stock market. This last aspect went unknown to me until, in my late 60s, I applied for Social Security and discovered that it was wanting.
The disease left me with some physical comprises, but as it left, it also gifted me with basketful of formerly forgotten memories of abuse that simply presented themselves to me in a kind of motion- picture-preview way while I was standing in my kitchen one afternoon, feeling somewhat vulnerable following my last treatment for the disease. On the one hand, suddenly my seemingly unstoppable bad behavior now all made sense, but on the other hand I felt strongly that some serious therapy was probably in order. I sought that therapy on a limited basis, only as I could “afford” it. The “afford” part was based on the financial reports I was receiving from the man who was stealing my money.
It went well, though, the therapy, and, in a few years, I finally began to realize that I was being played. I’m not ignorant… just really, really slow. One day, I came home to find that my husband had poured red paint over a self-portrait I’d been working on. Why? Because I didn’t have his permission to be painting when I should be working. It was then that I realized that it was time to divorce his ass.
I then spent one fabulously freeing year on my own for the first time in almost 40 years. I was in heaven. It was a bit of a tumultuous year, 2008, involving me moving apartment three times, but thanks to a wonderful daughter, a sister or two, a great boss, and a few really good friends, I made it through with my sanity as intact as it had ever been, such as that was.
By the time spring 2009 had rolled around, mentally exhausted, I felt as if I needed to have some fun in my life. My favorite form of fun is, was, and, for as long as I can stand, probably always will be, dancing. I had discovered, courtesy of husband number two, that my favorite kind of dancing was dancing naked, all by myself, alone. (I’d been a go-go girl in the 60’s; I was spoiled by the experience and practically addicted to the attention.) My second husband was a nudist and, while I was not, I wasn’t opposed to accompanying him to nude beaches and resorts. I have no problems with being naked in public as long as everyone else is naked too.
it was at such a resort where I discovered that dancing all by myself alone, naked, was just about the best thing in the world. Husband #2 was no dancer, and I was never keen to dance naked with men I didn’t know. But we’d made friends with a husband and wife who lived nearby and the husband of the couple was also not a dancer. His wife was in the exact position that I was in and thus it was that we found ourselves dancing near each other but not exactly with each other for literally every fast dance that came on. We were basically taking up space for each other so that no one else could step in. We were, each of us, very much on our own and having a blast.
So, once I knew what I needed to lift my spirits, I called my friends on the phone and arranged to have them meet me at the resort for the next dance, warning them that they were going to be my sort-of bodyguards, and might have to help me fend off any over enthusiastic wanna-be dance partners that might present themselves. She hadn’t been dancing in a long time and was thrilled for the invitation. He just liked watching, so we were all good.
Everything went perfectly as planned. I got the break I desired and I danced all night. That said, there were a few interruptions, three to be exact, all from the same guy. He was polite as all hell, but he wasn’t much on giving up. The first time he’d asked, and I turned him down, there had been a slow dance playing. That was never going to happen. The second time, as he approached, he let me know, (in case I hadn’t noticed?) that there was a fast dance playing and he suggested that, because of that, perhaps I might reconsider. That made me laugh and I was delighted that he had understood what was going on for me. But I told him no again, this time, letting him know that I had come specifically to dance by myself. He had been so polite and so sincere that I felt he deserved a reason for my repeated rejection… there was something very different about him from most of the men that I had — or, for that matter — have ever met.
So, the third time he approached, I was a little surprised, but he presented me with a different possible scenario: he told me that if I would like to have coffee and a chat in the morning he’d love to have me visit as he lived just up the hill. it was a very casual invitation and, again, very polite, and nice, so I thanked him and let him know that I’d think about it but what I thought at the time was… not gonna happen.
Curiously, though, when I awoke the next morning to a day that was, at 8 AM, already 85 degrees warm, I thought to myself, “well, a walk might be nice.” I put on a pair of socks, some sneakers, and a sun- shade, and I took off up the hill. I’d never gone on a walk by myself, naked, so it was a bit of a strange experience for me. It felt odd to be walking down a road — albeit a gravel road — without any clothes on. It wasn’t like walking across a beach. Cars, for one thing… and power lines.
By the time I got to what I estimated might be about halfway to my destination I began to get incredibly thirsty. Now I had two goals, and water was the first on my list.
By the time I got to his house I felt as if were about to die of thirst. I knocked on the front door.
No answer.
Great, I thought to myself. He’s not even here. I briefly imagined passing out from dehydration on the walk back. At least it would be a downhill walk.
I knocked on the front door again, this time with more force. I was desperate for water; I didn’t care how insane my knocking might sound. But still, no answer.
I did what probably anyone would do in that situation and reviewed his invitation in my mind. I knew I had it right. There was a car in the driveway. He was here. And I needed a drink, damn it.
Maybe he was still asleep. I decided to take a walk around the house and, as I did, I heard the telltale sounds of an exercise machine. Ah-hah! That was the problem. He couldn’t hear me. The other problem was that the sound was coming from the second floor. But… wait a minute… I was in the woods. There were fallen branches everywhere. I found the longest branch that I could manage to maneuver with my crippled hands, heaved it into an upright position and headed for the window closest to the noise. It didn’t take much more than a tap. His face appeared at the window; the window opened; he leaned forward, clearly delighted to see me, telling me to go round to the front door and he’d be right there.
Thus it was, that our first conversation was held in his living room, me, sweaty and naked except for sneakers; him. sweaty in full workout gear, sneakers, weight belt, the works. It was the perfect start to the delightful relationship that we maintain to this day, 12 years later.
That said, we come from two very different backgrounds. Mine, you already have some idea about. His, is pretty much the exact opposite. A more upstanding, honest, kind, sensible (well, mostly) individual you are not likely to find. I never got to meet his parents but to this day, I revere them. I have their wedding photo, framed, in my studio. I thank them every day for being the patient, loving parents they must have been, judging from the stories I’ve heard.
The chasm between my husband’s life experiences and mine would take something like the Golden Gate Bridge to span. But, somewhere in his lovely, lovely mind, I think I must be the teenage sweetheart he never had because he was too busy studying, because when it comes time for gift-giving, he gives me presents that would be suitable for someone with a lifetime of delicacy, decorum, and fondly remembered high school dances behind them, and we become the high-school sweethearts we never had.
