My adventure continues and just when I thought my life couldn't get any more interesting, BAM, it gets crazy cool. Suddenly a rush of memories, feelings, misunderstandings, explanations, and beauty has opened a flood of thoughts, ideas and stories to tell. My wit and sarcasm have returned. Life is funny, crazy, tragic and well, life, all over again. This is a great story and I feel compelled to tell it primarily because you just can't make this shit up. The story of my life has so many twists and turns that not even I can keep up and when I have an epiphanic experience, I feel it is too good not to share. However, there are characters involved and I don't want those characters to misconstrue my intentions, specifically because this is a love story and it's easy to get carried away with my own experience while denying the importance and role of others, specifically and in my case, a husband who I love and adore. I've been married 20 years to a man that I am completely and totally enamored with. He remains my soulmate, stunningly handsome, with a deep, sultry voice that makes me swoon especially when he uses it to woo me in Spanish. We were married when I was 29 which, growing up in Utah, qualifies me for Old Maid standards. Many of my friends are launching kids while we remain in the Middle School years. Most of my friends got married around 24 or 25 after they got out of college, and started families, but I was too busy ski racing, travelling the world and running from unsuccessful relationships to commit to anything worthwhile. I had some great ones too. I almost married this amazing guy from Montana, fabulously gorgeous, a world cup ski racer, rugged, cute and dreamy. We dated for four years while both of us chased our Olympic dreams until one day I ran into a finish post and suddenly we had less in common. It is my belief that timing is everything when it comes to love and despite trying to hang on to what we had with a marriage proposal and a promise of a lifetime, our window had closed. I was on a new, non-ski racing path and he was on his way to the Olympics. I called off the wedding 3 months before our nuptials, a decision that even to this day, I'm not sure why. I wanted to be married but there was something under the surface that I just couldn't put my finger on. I chalked it up to intuition and that marriage was a really bad idea given the circumstances. I had another subsequent relationship that I refer to as the "one-night-stand that lasted two years." He was like a hall pass. He was different from my usual athletic, gorgeous, Type A boyfriends. He was a tortured artist trying to launch his career in a ski town by day and bartend by night. And he just so happened to be my fiancee's neighbor. So when my fiancee called to inform me that he "slipped' while on the Men's World Cup tour in Kitzbuhel, I proceeded to "slip" into my next door neighbor's bedroom and consummate the end of my engagement. It was the first and last time I ever did something like that, so not being comfortable with myself afterwards, I chose to extend our relationship (after moving to my own apartment) while I finished out my college degree. I fell for this Artist over time and ultimately wanted more from our relationship than I had anticipated. However, he was not in a place of commitment. He was in his 20's, living in a ski town, surrounded by beautiful women, bartending at night and was doted on by his ski racer girlfriend who introduced him to all the cool people. (ha!) He had it made. No man in his right 27 year-old mind would give that up and my "tortured" artist was no exception. It took me awhile to figure out that the relationship was going nowhere. Meanwhile, I had a feeling that something (someone?) else was still out there. I left him, crushed, heart in pieces, feeling of failure. It was one of those where I didn't want to make it end, but his obvious avoidance toward something deeper was the first sign that maybe I was barking up the wrong tree. Then there was the "Boys trip" to Mexico. He said I couldn't go because well, it was boys only. They were going to Mexico to do "Boy" stuff. I could handle that but when we went out with his "boys" prior to them leaving, they all asked me why I wasn't coming.... when I looked at my boyfriend, he smiled sheepishly, and said, "Yeah, why aren't you coming?" Done. Unwanted and crushed, I fled to the Grand Canyon, sat on the rim with my dog and contemplated my next move. There's a really big river at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. As I looked down into it, I thought of a boy I knew in High School and I remember feeling like he was sitting right next to me, telling me I was going to be okay.
You never forget your "first" love and I have never forgotten him. He was cute but when he smiled, my knees shook. I literally melted when he looked at me a certain way. He was athletic, kinda smart, well, smart enough. We were in High School so smart wasn't exactly part of the criteria so I can't speak to how smart he actually was, but he graduated so that's that. He was gentle and kind, caring, intuitive (a touch anachronistic here but lets go with it). He was perfect. A little too perfect. He even had this brother who was neither hard to look at nor difficult to like.
At the time, I was chasing a skiing career filled with travel and experiences that no 16 year-old can really appreciate until she's way beyond it. My life was unfolding beautifully and all of my dreams were coming true. I made the U.S. Ski Team, I went to Europe to represent us in competition and I was doing well. The whirlwind took me up, up and away and I became driven toward my purpose and far too egocentric. My perfect first love no longer fit in to my crazy World Cup life and I felt like I had to choose. I didn't want to, but I knew both would implode if I didn't. I chose my skiing career thinking I couldn't reconcile the two. I didn't see how this teenage boy would not be swallowed whole by my life of skiing and ski racing and how we would manage to start a life together while I was traipsing around the world growing in ways he couldn't contemplate. I chose to end it. I didn't know how to do it. I LOVED him with my body and soul and didn't know how to face this enormous responsibility of ending a relationship I so desperately wanted to keep. I thought about stringing it along until it soured and disintegrated on its own but he got in to college and was making plans. The kindness and support of his brother and his father guilted me into doing the right thing, which, at the time, was ending the relationship. This was the noble part. The not so noble part was HOW I did it. I remember it like yesterday. Me: "It's over." Him: "Don't DO this." Me: "We are done." Him: "Please." Me: "No, I'm leaving for..... and I won't be back for awhile so this is it." Him: "You fucking bitch."
And that was it. He stormed out and I collapsed into a puddle of tears.
Over the years, his final statement rung in my ears. One night, my artist boyfriend and I got in a fight. He threw my car keys at me and had that "fucking bitch" look in his eyes and while it hurt, it wasn't anything like the original. No one has dug that deeply into my soul and ripped my heart out, ever. For years, I avoided my High School boyfriend and anything close to him because I was wounded. I was wounded and it was all my doing. There was no going back. I ran into his brother once or twice on my path and he informed me that his brother was dating someone seriously and pursuing a career in...... who knows or cares, because all I heard is he was gone forever to someone else. I was 23.
I decided to fall off the face of the Earth. I swore men off forever. I'd had it. I mismanaged the good ones and got abused by the bad ones and figured that maybe I should join a convent or choose homosexuality in hopes of better luck. Despite my best efforts, sex with women was not going to happen and the fact that I thought about sex with anyone kinda made the convent idea unrealistic. Instead, I became a river guide. I went to the river to hide. Heart battered by love, body battered by ski racing and head battered by why, I told no one where I was going. There were no phones, no computers, no reminders of growing up in a ski town. I lived out of the back of my car with my dog and learned how to guide rafts down the river with commercial guests. It was an enormous departure from school, ski racing, etc. I felt lost in a place where no one would find me. I was hiding. Artist boyfriend finally found me, evidenced by a dozen RED roses that showed up at the guide house which is a comedy of errors really. I cannot stand red roses. To me, red roses signify death. Not sure why but I have this thing about red roses, which I am certain I told him about. And yet, he sent me red roses. Any other color or a bouquet of daisies, and I probably would have gone running back to a relationship that would have brought me my first divorce and a mountain of heartache. But it gets better. A week later, he sent me ANOTHER dozen. By now, I am the talk of my new river rafting company. Who is this new river guide who keeps getting roses that she keeps giving away? Well, it got the attention of one staggeringly, gorgeous guide who was managing my river. The first time I laid eyes on him, I was held hostage. He had long brown hair that curled gently at the end. He was tan, and chesty and stunning with green eyes that swallowed me whole. He smiled this big toothy smile and when he spoke, he had this deep booming voice that made the ground shake and everything around me fell away. Well, having sworn off men for awhile, he had the effect that chocolate chip cookies might have, if one had been on a diet for far too long. I wanted 20 of him. He was perfect and I remember thinking, "You've already let one slip through the cracks. Don't let this one go by." And I didn't. I have loved him for 23 years since and don't regret a single second. Had that boy in High School not taught me how to love, how to be hated, how not to change, and how to hold on to love and never let it go, I might still be suffering through bouquets of red roses.
But this story gets better because the truth is always stranger than fiction.
About two years ago, I connected with my high school boyfriend's brother. I had just survived Breast Cancer which takes you to all kinds of crazy places. I was determined to make amends. I needed to free my soul, and felt that happily married with two kids, breastless and hormone-free (due to menopause), now was as good a time as any to reach out and right a lifetime wrong. But my friend said no.
[really?]
28 years isn't enough to water down a few raw nerve endings? Oh come on. Seriously? Yep. He wasn't budging. I was so sad. I did not expect that answer, but I dropped it. I respected his advice because he is a great friend and I trusted his wisdom. For whatever reason, which was none of my business, I would remain lost.
However, we live in an era of social media and I figured if I can't contact him directly, I'll contact him indirectly. He must have a Facebook or instagram account right? Married with kids? Heck, my kids can navigate every social media site out there. I'll just stalk him. So we went to work and of course, we found nothing. Nada. Every search engine yielded a reference to a computer mogul who died the year I was married. There was nothing. No facebook. No linked in. Nothing. Dead fricking end. The only way I was going to find him was through his family and they were clammed up. I started to wonder. Does he suffer from mental illness? Is he a recluse living somewhere on the other side of the globe? Is he married to a tyrant or worse......single? That would explain it and make it easier for me to drop it because being happily married, that just makes sense. Essentially, I gave up.
My 30th reunion is next weekend. I reached out to that brother and initially, he was resistant to connect me with my first love. I backed off and didn't push but I tried again and invited them both to our reunion which spanned their graduation years also. Phone calls were made, texts were exchanged, and suddenly, I have a phone number.
<insert F bomb>
My stomach has dropped out and suddenly, I feel like I am at the top of the Val d'Isere downhill, I'm naked, it's cold and we probably missed the wax. Be careful what you wish for. The "good" news is I just got off the Rogue River with my family. I have black eye and a blown eardrum from jumping off of a huge rock into the river. Both my feet are infected with Staph and to add insult to injury, I have ten extra pounds I don't need. Really? But it's now or never. Time to put your poles over the wand, shoot out the starting to gate and drop to your death. It will be a good death though, driven by the best of intentions.
I have a number.
Call or text? Text or call? I can't call. I can't even order a taco without tripping over my own tongue right now. Okay, text it is. Wait, what time is it. He's married I think. Don't text during family time or wife time or midnight. Check. I'll text in the morning. Wait, work. I'll text him at lunch. Please God, do not let him be lunching with his 12 year-old daughter....Hmmmm, maybe morning is better. After all, he doesn't have to respond until lunch. And so on, and so forth went the banter in my head. I had to take time to breathe and ask myself: Is it safe? Is it reasonable? Is it respectul? My husband guides me through these situations and this was no exception. "He loved you once. If he's a decent guy, he'll be cordial." How I love the voice of reason, especially in bass.
I texted.
Lunch on Thursday.
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