The spring of my senior year of high school was a crazy time. I was counting down the days to graduation and moving out to my own apartment. I was looking forward to becoming an adult, a college student, and having a job. (Maybe not in that order, but you know, whatever.)

I was also excited about getting away from my parents. We were at that stage where they weren’t sure if they could still tell me what to do and I wasn’t sure I would do what they told me to do. It’s was a very slippery slope and none of us were handling it very well.

It was an emotional (read: stressed) time for teenage Isabel.

What made things even more emotional was the fact that winter was sticking around that year. There was snow on the ground when there shouldn’t have been any freakin’ snow. My heart was black and the black sky wasn’t helping.

At some point I had a dream. I don’t remember the specifics of this particular dream. I just remember I woke up and knew that if I killed someone the snow would stop and the sun would shine again.

Dude, I told you I was pretty stressed.

Of course I didn’t kill anyone (that you know of!). But you get what I’m saying; I hate the snow. I hate lack of sun. I crave nice sunny weather.

And yet, again, we wonder why adult Isabel lives in Seattle.

I’ve been wearing my winter coat every morning on my way into the office. It’s the middle of May, and yet, still wearing the winter coat. While my coat is pretty cute and cozy, it’s a little too late in the year to still have to wear my winter coat.

My alarm went off this morning at 5:30, like always. But unlike always, I awoke to the sun peeking in through our bedroom window. At first I thought I had over slept. But then I realized, I hadn’t over slept.

The sun was actually shining in Seattle.

I walked into work today, sans my winter coat, with a smile on my face. (See, that’s me in the picture…with a smile.) (And that’s the actual reflection of the sun on the building!) (The sun!!)

It’s supposed to get up to ninety degrees today. Which is awesome considering it hasn’t gotten over forty degrees yet this year. (That may be a slight exaggeration, but you get what I’m saying.)

It’s the perfect way to start a weekend. A weekend where my bestest friend, May, will be in town visiting from Reno.

Bring on the sun, the crafting, and the outlet mall shopping.

I’m ready for it.

So tell me, have you ever thought about killing anyone? 

So tell me, do you like waking up to the sun shining in your room like I do? Or are you one of those freaks people that hangs black curtains in your bedroom so that you never see the sun?

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Holy crap, I don’t know why I had never seen this video before. It’s the music video for the song Rhett Miller did with Rachael Yamagata for their song “Fireflies”. And it’s awesome. Dude, you should really watch the video.

For my twelfth birthday my parents bought me my first real journal. It was dark blue, hard bound and had my name engraved in gold on the front cover. I was excited for the day to be over, so I could curl up on my bed, pen in hand, and write my first entry in my new journal.

I wasn’t sure what to write. Or how to write it. I took a cue from every TV show I’d ever seen and started with:

Dear Diary,

Today is my birthday.

And then I sort of drew a blank on what else to write. So much so that I really wasn’t that loyal to my journal. Sure I would write someone every few weeks, but I didn’t become a daily journal writer until I got into junior high and fell madly in love with Shadrach Roundy.

Shadrach Roundy was a grade older then me, and thus attended high school. The only time I would see him was when my bus from the junior high made a stop at the high school to pick up more kids. Every other day I would see Shadrach walking from his last class back inside the building to his locker.

That’s it. I saw this kid for a total of about five minutes each week. And it was only through the bus window. I never talked to him. I never waved to him. I never tried to have him notice me. I just oogled him through the window.

And then I went home each night and logged into my nifty journal whether or not I had seen Shadrach Roundy that day. I also made it a point to write down what he had been wearing, who he had been walking with, and how dreamy I thought he was.
Dude, it’s a good thing I had that journal.

I don’t remember when this fascination with Shadrach Roundy started. I think maybe I saw him at a church function and feel madly in love with him. It sure didn’t happen because of a magical encounter since Shadrach Roundy and I never spoke a single word to each other. Not once. Not ever.

During my three years in high school I continued to keep up with my daily journal writing. And for those three years my journal entires continued to be solely based on Shadrach Roundy:

I passed Shadrach Roundy in the hall today after I left English class. I think he smiled at me.

Shadrach Roundy is wearing his blue baseball team shirt today. It’s my favorite. It makes his eyes shine.

Today Shadrach Roundy had one some new white tennis shoes. His feet are so small and cute. I hope our kids have his feet.

My dad drove me past Shadrach Roundy’s house today. I think I saw his mom through the kitchen window. She’s seems so nice.

Of course he was always referred to in the journal by his full name, and of course I always journaled about what he wore that day. And, of course, I never got up the nerve to actually speak real live words to Shadrach Roundy. He was simply out of my league. Speaking to him would have opened up the opportunity for rejection. It was much easier to worship Shadrach Roundy from afar and merely dream of the day when our eyes would meet on the dance floor at prom, he would then walk over to ask me to dance, and eventually ask me to marry him.

We would live happily ever after.

Gag. I was such a loser.

It wasn’t that Shadrach Roundy was so popular and such a snob that he wouldn’t have talked to me. He came from a good family and, I think, he really was a nice guy. I’m sure if I would have approached him he would have been pleasant and cordial. I don’t think he would have fallen madly in love with me, but he wouldn’t have been rude.

Shadrach Roundy just wasn’t that type of person.

Which made me love stalk him even more.

Shadrach Roundy didn’t date much. Until the end of my junior hear when he hooked up with a girl in my grade. They began dating and even though I wanted to hate her, I couldn’t. She was just a nice girl. Dang it. I wanted to trip her when she walked down the hall. I wanted to key her car and write bad things about her on the bathroom walls. But I couldn’t damn it. She was just so likable.

No wonder Shadrach Roundy liked her and not me.

Since Shadrach Roundy was a year older then I was, he graduated and moved on with his life before my senior year even started. And so did I. My journal (journals, actually, since I now had three completely full journals) devoted to Shadrach Roundy sat untouched on my book shelf. When I moved away to college, the journals were boxed up and stored with the rest of my junk in the basement.

A couple of years ago, while in Utah visiting friend and family, my mom handed me the box containing my journals. She was cleaning out her house and wanted me to take my crap back with me to Seattle. The King and I had driven to Utah, so we had our car and plenty of room for my boxes. During the 14 hour car ride back to Seattle I decided to bust out my old journals and revisit my past.

The car ride was long and I was bored. I was also feeling brave.

I started to read my journals, starting on my first entry on my twelfth birthday, outloud to The King. He sat there (he had no choice, since he was the one driving) and listened as I read through three years of journals all about Shadrach Roundy. At times he forgot he was reading about his wife’s childhood. He forgot he knew how the story was going to end.

“When do Isabel and Shadrach Roundy go on their first date?”, he asked half way through journal number two.

“You know I never actually talked to Shadrach Roundy, right?”

“What? You liked this kid enough to document his every wardrobe choice and you never spoke to him?”

“Never.”

And then I continued reading outloud.

I finished reading the journals and going through the newspaper clipping about Shadrach Roundy (or anyone he knew or was related to) and closed them back up with the rubber bands to make sure nothing was lost. I put my journals back in the box in the back seat of the car and we continued on our way home to Seattle.

I joked with The King about finding Shadrach Roundy and just shipping him the journals with a note telling him he might as well have them. I mean, come on, they were more about him then they were about me. It would be more useful for his posterity to have them then my own. (Dude, teenage Babboo would mock me so hard for those journals.) Of course when I google Shadrach Roundy’s name, nothing comes up. At least not for the right Shadrach Roundy.
I wonder if I could just mail the journals to his mom’s house?

If I did do that, what would Shadrach Roundy find creepier, my three journals devoted to him, the fact that I mailed them to his mom’s house, or the current picture of me, looking much better then I did in high school, that I’ll include in this shipment to his mom?

So tell me, what were your high school journals like? And um, does anyone know how I can get in touch with Shadrach Roundy?

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Head over to SeattleMomBlogs to read about what we all did for fun a few weekends ago.  And enter to win a chance for a FREE WEEKEND at the Great Wolf waterpark!

The night before The King and I got married, we met a bunch of friends at The King’s apartment before heading out to a local bar. I use the term “friends” loosely as they were mostly The King’s friends. I had only lived in Seattle a few months and hadn’t made any local friends. Yet.

While sitting in his apartment, waiting for everyone to arrive, I looked at the window and saw a couple walking across the street and towards the building. Although I hadn’t met them before, I was pretty sure it was The King’s friends May and Mr. May. They weren’t walked together. In fact, Mr May was about three steps in front of May.

They both looked upset.*

May and her husband were the last to arrive, so once they got inside, we all packed up and stuffed into a few cars to head out. The rest of the night was spent sitting around a table, talking and laughing. Most of the people there knew each other from their time in the art program in college together.

That evening we all joked and laughed about how everyone was practically related to one another. The King had known May and Smelly since their freshman year. He’d known Smelly’s fiance since 5th grade, and had actually introduced them to each other. Heck, The King had even known Mr. May longer then May had known him. And there I sat, the lone person at the table. I didn’t know anyone except The King. And he wasn’t even really paying attention to me.

A few months after The King and I got married, Smelly had her wedding. The King and I took the day off work and attended their ceremony inside the Seattle LDS temple. Again, I didn’t seem to know anyone else that was there. Until I looked up and saw May sitting here. We exchanged pleasantries. It wasn’t until after the ceremony was over and everyone was outside taking pictures that May and I started to talk. She was cracking me up left and right. And I was digging it.

After that night The King and I made an effort to hang out more with May and her husband. Unfortunately, they lived out in the ‘burbs, so we didn’t see them as much as I would liked. Fortunately, May and I both had jobs that allowed us to e-mail each other during the day. Unfortunately, May and Mr. May decided they were moving away from Seattle.

Mr. May had become disillusioned with his job in Seattle, so they had decided to pack their bags and move to Reno, where Mr. May’s family lived. (Reno!) I begged and cried. And yet, they still left. The King told me not to be so sad. He promised, “they’ll move back.”

Again, May and I were able to e-mail throughout our days at work. It was during this time that we really were bonded. We would e-mail about what outfit we were wearing that day, or about what silly thing our husbands had done the night before. You know, the important things in life.

(All of us together, the night before they moved to Reno, the first time!)

Again Mr. May’s job situation in Reno didn’t pan out. They decided to move closer to May’s family in Orange County. I wasn’t sure if their move to the OC was one step closer to them moving back to Seattle. But I hoped it was.

The King and I flew down to visit them in the summer. We stayed with May’s mom and took advantage of all the sun and fun that California has to offer. We even spent the day at Disneyland with May and Mr. May. Nothing more fun then four childless adults enjoying what Mickey has to offer. It was a fabulous trip and just reminded me even more how much I loved and missed having May around all the time.

A few months later, May informed me that Mr. May had been offered his old job back in Seattle. He was considering accepting. I tried to not get too excited about them moving back, while also praying that they would.

At this point, The King and I were just getting ready to move into the first house we built. We were digging what was going to be our new neighborhood and things were looking up with the prospect of the May’s returning to Seattle.

And things just got better. Not only did Mr. May accept his old Seattle job. But they bought a house in our new neighborhood. On our same street. Mere houses away from our new house.

May was going to be closer enough to almost be my sister-wife. I had visions of eating dinner together every night, taking nightly walks together, getting pregnant the same time, having babies in the same week, our kids being best friends, only to have them grow up and marry each other.

I had it all figured out. And I was happy.

(Me, May, and Smelly during a Girls-Only-Weekend to Portland.)

May and I did do everything together. Okay, we didn’t have dinner together every night. And we missed a few nights of walking. And we had our kids about a year apart. (Although we were pregnant at the same time. But only for about a week. And um, I lost that baby.) But other then that, it was Heaven.

After living so closer to each other, we decided to sell out house and start work on the new house. Even though May and I now lived three miles apart, we still hung out all the damn time. Sure we couldn’t walk together every night, but May was good to drive downtown to hang out at my apartment and I was happy to take the bus down to May’s house.

(Celebrating May’s birthday, weeks after Babboo was born. You’ll notice the matching skirts May made for her and her daughter.)

May was there to help me transition into being a Mother. She was there to help take advantage of my maternity leave. She was there with me to take Babboo to the zoo for the first time.

She was just always there.

And what made it even better was that Lil’ May was there with May.

Spending time with the two of them always made the day better for Babboo and me. It always made me smile and thank the Lord for blessing me with such good friends.

May and I started the tradition of Girls-Night-Out with our small group of friends. May and I were always the ones to organize the outings and May always choose her favorite restaurant to go to. Those evenings spent in the corner of the restaurant was one of the reasons I survived that first year of Motherhood so effortlessly.

(Vesper and May, enjoying one of many Girls-Night-Out.)

And then it happened. Mr. May decided he wanted to go back to school. Apparently his two degrees weren’t enough. He wanted to try out a whole new line of work. And crap, schools in Seattle are way too much money and darned it, it costs too much to live here.

They were selling their house and moving back to Reno.

(Oh Reno, how I loath you.)
Last year, for May’s birthday, I bought her a crate full of flowers to plant in her yard. I thought that, maybe, if her yard was extra pretty she wouldn’t want to move. What it probably did was give her house more curb-appeal and help it sell fast.

So, they sold their house. Made arrangements for Mr. May to start college in Reno. During this May discovered she was knocked up. They both quit their Seattle jobs.

And my heart broke more and more as their move out day approached. Instead of actually dealing with it, I just tried to ignore it was every going to happen. I (secretly) hoped that Mr. May would decided that maybe college wasn’t for him. I prayed that his job would offer him more money. I tried desperately to get him a job with my company. I begged and pleaded with my boss to just give the guy a chance. Alas, he wasn’t hired. During all this, May just kept packing boxes after boxes and making plans to desert me move to Reno.

I spent their last few days in Seattle helping May pack up her house (and by “help” I mean that I stood there talking to her while her sister in law did the actual packing.) I think I tried to contain my emotions and never pleaded for her to “never leave me”, but I may have said those words. I’m not proud.

(Look at May’s cute barley-pregnant belly!)

The King was out of town on business, but he flew home early to say good bye the friends that he loves just as much as I do. We spent the rest of the night laughing and eating McDonald’s and prolonging the inevitable. (While May’s sister in law just kept packing and working hard. Seriously, she was an awesome help to May. Much more so then I was.)

(I love how May and her family are all dressed in bright colors and The King family is dressed in all black. That’s how we roll.)

Eventually, I could no longer deny the time. My poor kid was up later then he’d ever been. It was time to say our farewells and go home to put Babboo in bed.

May and I hugged each other and I got in my car to leave. I was sobbing before we hit the freeway. Months of pent up emotions came pouring out. I was having a hard time breathing and I wasn’t sure if it was from my tears or from the sudden realization that I was without my best friend.

Of course May and I have cell phone with cheap long distance this time around. We still have e-mail and now I have this blog. So really, we’re still connected. And yes, there’s still a part of me that is dreaded this summer, without May by my side at the pool or at the park.

Plus, there’s that little baby she had back in December that I’ve yet to snuggle.

It’s a good thing May and her entire family are coming out to Seattle to visit us (ME!) in a few weeks. I’m seriously giddy with anticipation.

Happy Birthday May! Thanks for always being a good example to me. And extra thanks for doing it with just enough irreverence to make it fun!

*I found out, years later, that they were upset. Apparently May had asked Mr. May to help trim her hair. It did not go so well. Lesson learned, don’t let your husband give you a hair cut.

When I was a freshmen in college I started dating a boy sophomore. Without really getting into that toxic relationship right now, let’s just cut to the chase; Crusher and I dated most of my freshman year. We both moved back home that summer which was about three hours away from each other. The next year Crusher transferred to a major university quite a few hours away from the college I was going to.

Thus began my first official Long-Distance-Relationship.

Guess what? They suck.

I didn’t even really like Crusher, and it still sucked. I hated having to someone work my weekend-only job around driving the gazallion miles to spend a Saturday night with Crusher. Now my situation might have sucked even more since Crusher, for whatever reason, didn’t drive. (At all. I know!!) And he didn’t have a job. This meant that if we did do something that required spending actual money while we were together, I was paying for all of it. (Did I mention that I was also in school and trying to pay for what I could?)

I hated feeling the pressure to do well in school, work a part time job, and maintain my first real relationship. I hated trying to get my laundry done during the weekdays so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it on the weekend. I hated having to go without food so that I could afford to put gas in my car. I hated having to drive the hours to see Crusher after I got off my waitressing shift on Friday night. I hated trying to squeeze some roommate/college/study/family time in the middle of all of this.
And really, I didn’t even like this guy. I just didn’t know how to break it off with him. I was young and immature. And again, first real relationship.

In case you hadn’t heard; winters in Utah are brutal. And while I pretty much learned how to drive in the snow before I learned how to walk, it still wasn’t a great idea for me to be driving over the mountain pass from my small town college dorm to Crusher’s university dorm every weekend.

Blah, blah, blah, Crusher was a tool, blah, blah, blah, and an idiot. Blah, I finally broke up with him.

And then I vowed to never ever again have any part in a long-distance-relationship. I made a promise, to myself, and the God’s in Heaven (and my friends and family) to only date boys that lived within 15 miles of my parents.

While I spent less money on filling up my car, the boys that lived closer to home weren’t any less tools then Crusher was. (Maybe the dating years between like 18 and 24 are laden with idiot boys?) (Ah-ha, I’m on to something!) It was nice to not have to worry about driving over a mountain pass to visit my latest boyfriend, but still, boys….blah.

I used to go to The Big City to go dancing or to clubs, but I never met a guy there that I was going to date. Dude, I was very serious about my vow. No long-distance boyfriends. None at all.

My first husband literally lived less then a mile from my parents house. He was like an answer to my promise to the God’s to never partake in a long-distance-relationship. It was like I married him because he lived close by. I was lazy. I didn’t want to have to drive or rearrange my work schedule to spend time with my fellow.

After my failed first marriage, I must have realized, on some level, that this “staying close to home” dating plan wasn’t really working for me.

Enter The King and the 1400 miles between us when we met.

Thankfully that long-distance-relationship didn’t last long because I just packed up my life and moved closer to him. Easy, breezy.

(Yeah, not easy. And not really breezy either. But whatever. It’s been 8 years and we’re still here.)

My cousin, who is twenty, just got a new boyfriend. She slept over a few weeks ago (while The King was away on business) and spent the entire evening gushing over her new boyfriend. He seems like a very nice guy. He’s cute and going to college and has a nice family and is good to my cousin.

The thing is, this new boyfriend is going to university about four hours away from where my cousin is going to university.

She’s been drying the super duper long drive out to visit him every other weekend. Just thinking about this makes my heart ache and my butt hurt (that’s a lot of time sitting in a car). New relationships are always fun. Those first few months with a new person are magical. But dude, I don’t envy her.

Because seriously, I’m just too darn lazy to drive that far for a boy. The whole scenario brings back too many bad memories for me. Memories of not being appreciated and putting all my efforts and eggs into one basket.  And then having that basket run over by a Mac truck.
It’s times like these when I’m thankful that I’m married and that The King lives close enough to me that when I roll over in bed, in the middle of the night, he’s always there.

So tell me, even had a long-distance-relationship? How was it for you?

The spring of my freshman year an open meeting was held for the high school track team. I had always loved running and so I stayed after school and attended the meeting. Everyone who attended that first meeting became an official member of the high school track team.

Track practice was held everyday, after school, up at the high school. I would ride the school bus to the high school, change into my new Nike Air shoes, shorts and a t-shirt and walk out to the track field. The coaches used this time to assess who could do track events the best. The boys all wanted to do pole vaulting or the long and high jumps.

I just wanted to run fast.

I spent that track season running my little fourteen year old heart out everyday after school and on the weekends. There seemed to be a track event every week and I anxiously awaiting all of them. I ran the 100 meter dash. My parents came to every track event and supported me from the bleachers.

That year, the track team won the state championship.

While I enjoyed running track, I quickly realized that I wasn’t a very fast runner. I also realized that I didn’t fit in too well in “team sports”. I continued to run almost everyday, but come the next year, I didn’t try out for the track team.

My sophomore year, still sort of interested in playing some type of sport, I tried out for the high school volleyball team. Tryout outs were nothing like the track tryouts where everyone made it. Volleyball was a little more serious. And strenuous. It lasted all week. Again, I wasn’t too confident in my athletic abilities, but I made the team.

I knew it my heart that I only made the volleyball team because my dad was a teacher at the school (who also coached in his spare time), and the volleyball coaches didn’t want to disappoint him. I tried to act like I made the team because I could jump higher then anyone else on the entire team. I tried to act like it was because I was the only one of the sophomore team that could over hand serve. But the truth was, I felt under qualified and out of place.

I’ve never been able to adequately explain it, but I’ve just never felt like I fit inside my body right. It’s like there isn’t any fluid communication between my brain and my limbs. I have no coordination, no skill, and basically no confidence. This makes doing anything athletic and physical unnerving and uncomfortable.

I played volleyball that season and I truly did enjoy it. Sure the girls and I didn’t become fast friends. Sure I wasn’t good at volleyball at all. Sure I hated the after school practices. But overall, it was a fun time.

The volleyball team won the state championship that year. Seriously, no thanks to me at all. It was thrilling to be a part of another winning team. But it was also embarrassing to know that I had absolutely nothing to do with the win. I got to ride into town on a firetruck, but I knew I didn’t belong there.

I knew I wouldn’t be playing again the next season.

The volleyball season was over and the school year was coming to a close. I rarely gave any thought to volleyball. The other girls on the team continued to hang out together. They ate lunch together. They spent their weekends together. They walked through the halls together. While I don’t think they were trying to leave me out, I never hung out with them outside of games and practices, not even a simple wave or smile took place between me and any of my teammates.

While I didn’t care about waving goodbye to my chances to play team sports, my dad did care. He never said it, but I knew he wanted one of his kids to excel at sports. I was, honestly, his only hope. And I wasn’t much of a hope. That summer off from school, I kept up my running but I didn’t attend the volleyball workshops. I knew that attending the workshops was pretty much mandatory if you wanted to keep playing at the high school level. But remember, I didn’t really want to play.

Volleyball tryouts took place the first week of the new school year. I told everyone around me that I wasn’t going to try out. But secretly, to make my dad happy, I decided I would try out. I just wouldn’t tell anyone.

And so I lied to my family and friends about where I was going after school, I packed up my gym bag with my volleyball uniform and shoes and hid it in my car. I showed up at tryouts and ran laps with my previous teammates, worked on my rolls, and hit ball after ball.

During tryouts I quickly realized I wasn’t going to make the team. My dad being a teacher at my school only held so much clout, and it wasn’t enough to compensate for my mediocre athletic skills. At the end of the week a list of those who made the team was posted. I didn’t even have to look. I knew my name wouldn’t be on the list.

I wasn’t sad that I didn’t make the team. I really wasn’t. But I was upset that I let my dad down. I was also hugely embarrassed that I was the only person that had tried out, but didn’t make the team. I knew it, and the rest of the girls knew it.

And so ended my foray into the world of physical abilities and athletic prowess. I walked away, and never looked back…

…until now.

I’ve been back on the Weight Watchers wagon for almost a month. And while I’m happy with my current six pound loss, I’ve known all along that at some point I was going to have to start actually doing some sort of physical activity. I knew my daily walks to and from work and Babboo’s school weren’t going to be enough. I knew I would have to do something physical and athletic.

I woke up a little earlier then normal this morning and devoted 10 minutes of my day to my flabby abs via my “10 Minute Solutions Pilates” DVD. I know it isn’t a lot and that a measly 10 minute work out isn’t going to do that much. But it’s a start. And knowing myself as well as I do, I know that this is a good place to start.

Too bad I don’t have anyone around that will join a gym with me. It sure would be more fun to have someone to do this with.

So tell me, am I the only one that feels inadequate when it comes to any type of physical activity? And if you are the type of person that likes to be active, what types of activities do you enjoy?

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Don’t forget to head over to SeattleMomBlogs to enter all of their awesome Earth Day give-aways. They are giving away Method Baby products, Belli skin care products, a gDiaper Starter Kit, and even a book to help you live a Greener life.

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And don’t forget to set your VCR/DVR/TiVo to record the Tonight Show this Thursday night!! The Old 97’s will be preforming and promoting their new album (hitting stores May 13th). It’s called “Blame it on Gravity” and by the sounds of it, it’s going to knock your socks off.

While at a the Seattle Green Festival Saturday night I looked around and saw all the different types of people that were there, either as exhibitors or attendees. It was noisy and busy in the Convention Center, and yet I found myself quietly waking around. I stopped to look at a booth showcasing recycled rubber shingles and while reading their display I glanced up and made eye contact with the guy manning the booth.

For a brief second I thought it was my first husband.

He smiled at me, and I smiled back. I wasn’t sure what it was that made me think this stranger was a man I was once married to. Was it his blue eyes? (Did my ex even have blue eyes?) Was it his short, blonde hair? (Did my ex have blonde hair?) Was it the clothes he was wearing? (Was my ex now a hippy?) Was it his age? (Way my ex still 24 years old?)

While I don’t look at every strangers face to see if it’s the ex, I do occasionally walk by someone and, for a second, think it might be him. The people that make me take a double take are usually guys in their early 20’s who resemble what I remember my first husband to look like on our wedding day. In my mind, he looks the same.

This weekend I realized that if I were to run into my ex, I’m not sure I would recognize him. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve laid eyes on him. He’s in his 30’s now. He’s, most likely, all grown up. He’s probably a little heavier and maybe balder. He’d probably be surrounded by different people then when I knew him. He’d probably have different tastes and probably wouldn’t be wearing the same Silver Tab jeans I remember him in. He’d also, probably, be with his new wife.

While I realized that I probably wouldn’t recognize my ex-husband, I also realized that he probably wouldn’t recognize me. While visiting my family a few years ago, I walked past my ex-mother-in-law at the grocery store. She walked right past me. She was either snubbing me, or she didn’t even recognize me.

I was 22 years old when I met my first husband. That was a long time ago. Back then I had short hair. More specifically I had short, blonde hair. I also hadn’t had my adult braces yet, and was walking around with my snaggle teeth. Styles were different then and I didn’t go anywhere without my shirt tucked in and a pair of Dr. Martins on my feet.

My the time our marriage was over, I was 23 years old. Pretty young in the grand scheme of things. I was nowhere near finding my own style or being comfortable in my skin. My hair was back to it’s original color and was a more desirable length. “Friends” was all the rage at this time, as was The Rachel hair cut. I had long, fake nails that were always perfectly manicured. And most importantly, I didn’t wear my glasses yet.

(This picture of me and my siblings was taken minutes after I signed my final divorce papers. It was my mom’s Mother’s Day gift that year.)

I’ve heard of ex’s that have remained in each other’s lives after they’ve divorced.  I’ve heard of people that can work through their issues and remain close after they’ve divorced.  I don’t think it’s that unusual for an ex to know and be friends with a former spouses new spouse.   But for me and my ex, we’re pretty much dead to each other.  Our families, while they live within a mile of each other, have no contact with each other.  Our siblings are no longer friends with one another.  I don’t know my ex’s new wife and he and The King have never been within 10 miles of each other.

But, if by some chance we were to run into each other, I  would be happy to smile and say “hello”.  I wouldn’t be against catching up with him for a few minutes.  But after thinking about this that last weekend, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even recognize him.

It’s been just too long.

And, for me, that’s fine.

So tell me, how different do you look now from your 23 old self?
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The winner of my free gDiapers give-away is….

…Marilyn over at Slackermama, who said:

Heck ya! I would love to try these out. I’m currently up to my eyeballs in disposable diapers and am starting to feel a tad guilty about the impact just my family is having on the environment these days. Perhaps this is the answer?

Congratulations to Marilyn (who has a sweet new baby girl), and thanks to the other 100 of you who entered.