It was Saturday, and I was snowed in.
My favorite internet meteorologist had given us a heads up about the weekend’s impending storm a week in advance. By Wednesday night I was confident Richmond would be getting a good snowfall, and my excitement grew. Normally, early January depresses me as I pack up Christmas decorations and fall off my new year’s resolution wagon. But the possibility of a snow day, even a weekend snow day, never fails to brighten my spirits.
My favorite thing about a snow day is how it puts a stop to our normal busyness, sometimes for days at a time. It is a reminder of just how powerless we are in the face of Mother Nature. It is a forced Sabbath. And as long as I’m prepared with all the necessities – bread, milk, toilet paper, hot cocoa – I’m happy to be homebound for a day or two watching the gentle quieting of the world.
This Saturday, I did not eat the bread, drink the milk, or even open the new package of TP. But I did enjoy the cocoa in the company of one of my favorite people – Floyd.
I’ve been writing about Floyd on Holeyheart.com since the very beginning. I may not have used his name, but he is the “fella” to which I’ve referred now and then. In fact, he is one of the main reasons I started this blog in the first place.
I had been separated from my children’s father just a few weeks when Floyd and I became more than just acquaintances at church. The kids were not with me one Sunday morning, and he asked me how they were. I said they were good, they were at their dad’s this weekend (I’ve since learned that’s “code” for “I’m single.”). I guess that’s when our relationship started, because he immediately suggested I read a book that helped him get through his divorce, and the next week, he gave me a copy.
After that, we’d occasionally chat on Facebook, or say hello to each other after Mass. I had a lot of emotional baggage to unpack, and getting into a romantic relationship right away was very specifically on my “NOT To Do” list. It wasn’t even on my radar (although I can’t deny the butterflies I felt whenever he was near me). Dating was not his intention either. One of our first conversations was about how he’d made the decision early in his divorce not to get into a serious relationship again until after his kids were done with high school. He knew his focus needed to be them, and this gave me pause about my own future plans. He still had a high school senior and sophomore, and an eighth grader, making him a “safe” friend for me. Also, he was quite a bit older than me. Neither of us saw it coming.
I turns out the only things necessary for a romantic relationship to take root are time, attention, and a little bit of chemistry. By the end of the summer, it became apparent to me we’d better go on a date, because the flirting and innuendo were making us both a bit silly. I figured we’d go out a few times and it would fade, like most of my pre-marriage dating experiences.
That was five and a half years ago.
My divorce, however, wasn’t even final yet. I was not ready to be in a relationship, no matter how nice the guy seemed. I resolved to break up with him; a solid, “no contact” kind of break, otherwise we’d just end up back together. I talked to him about it, and I’m sure he tried to understand. He promised to honor my request, but he was understandably hurt.
So was I. I may have had good justifications for ending it, but what I really wanted to do was take his hands in mine and pray with him that God would guide our relationship. Praying with a partner is, in my opinion, the highest form of intimacy there is, but I avoided it. I thought I knew better. If we prayed together, I thought, it would make breaking up that much harder, that much more painful. I had been through it before and it was excruciating. I didn’t want that for him, or me.
So, on Christmas Eve 2011, when he whispered “I love you,” into my ear during the sign of peace at Mass, so softly he probably didn’t even think I heard it, I knew he meant it. He wanted what was best for me, even if that wasn’t him. And as a distraction and an outlet for all the feelings I was experiencing as a newly separated mom of three who had just had her first real post-divorce heartbreak, not with a jerk, but a truly wonderful gentleman, I started this blog one week later.
That was five years ago. Needless to say, we got back together. No contact did not work; forcing solutions never does. I’m a little embarrassed to say I don’t know how many times we got back together after needing “space.” He’s had more first kisses from me than I can remember. About two years ago, I decided to do what I had wanted to do in the beginning – turn my relationship over to God. I let go of my fears and gradually opened up emotionally. Ever so slowly, the world’s most patient man started to trust I wouldn’t walk away, and opened up more with me. I let myself fall in love with him again, as he did with me. It has been the most uncomfortable two years of my life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Yes, uncomfortable. One of the pieces of emotional baggage I’ve uncovered in recovering from my divorce is a deep fear of intimacy. This came as a surprise to me, because when I was married, the lack of emotional intimacy was one of my biggest complaints. Turns out, that wasn’t my ex’s problem . . . it was mine. It has taken five years of being in a relationship with one person for me to learn it’s ok to let the person I love see me weak, anxious, falling apart, angry, tired, sick, on my period, gassy, grumpy, stinky, and downright afraid. I’m still not convinced it’s ok to leave dishes in the sink while he’s here, but I leave them there as practice.
This weekend, we planned to be snowed in together. At my house. (With my dirty dishes). Dating when you have three kids leaves very little opportunity for one-on-one time for more than a few hours at a time. We’ve gone on a few trips together in the last year, but trips usually offer plenty of activities and distractions that can get in the way of emotional intimacy. 24 hours of togetherness with no distractions made my heart beat fast, and not the “good” way. The only people who get to have that much uninterrupted time with me are my children, and they have to love me. He doesn’t have to. What if I had to fart and couldn’t hold it in that long?
Apparently, it doesn’t matter if I can’t hold it in that long. We had a really great 24 hours, during which we lazed around on the couch under blankets, watched TV, ate snacks, and engaged in one of the most intimate acts two people can do together.
That’s right. We cleaned my refrigerator.
Even my mother, who isn’t timid about tackling my dirty dishes or making my kids’ beds when I’m not here, has never broken the boundary protecting that inner sanctum from outsiders.
I had condiments with expiration dates from ten years ago. There’s a certain amount of shame attached to that truth, and I shared it with a man whose opinion matters greatly to me.
I’ve unlocked a new level of intimacy with this man who for some reason still wants to be in my life after the ups and downs I’ve put him through. After letting him see the contents of my fridge, there’s little else I would keep from him. I hope we get a few more snow days together this season.