What does one put on an About page when you don’t want too many people to know too much about you? This blog started life as a Twitter feed, but then I found that 128 characters was just not enough for the amount of post-divorce grief and anger I am managing at the moment. I admit, I have a lot of both with which to contend. Like many, I turned to the internet to get a sense of what post-divorce life might be like. I found lots of cheery stories about women dating and finding love again. Blended families in harmony. Finding eligible men at parties, through friends, online, at work, at the gym, at the grocery store. Mine has not been so cheery. My ex was emotionally and verbally abusive. He has serious mental problems and burgeoning neurological issues. The main reason we divorced is that he wants children more than anything, I can’t have them, and after four years of fertility treatments and four failed implantations with a gestational carrier I said enough. He has since found a woman who is nine years his junior with proven fecundity. I have yet to have a coffee date. I’m not at the I don’t give a fuck stage.

I’m also fascinated by the idea of a standard of beauty. People think it’s an ever-changing standard, but I’ve been around just long enough to see that it isn’t. The American ideal of beauty has changed very little in 60 years. What’s changed is how rigidly we insist upon adherence to it, how much pressure we apply, and how we punish those who do not conform. If the 1960s was the Age of Aquarius it has matured into the Age of Conformity.

As for the name… When I was in college I fell in love with a young man who cared for me very much but was having a very difficult time with the fact that I was not ready to sleep with him. He knew I had been sexually assaulted he knew about the sex-negative, religious household in which I was raised. In the end he said he cared about me very much but he couldn’t do this anymore. It’s sad really because if he had waited, I probably would have slept with him. Every once in a while, usually when I have had sex on the brain, he appears in my dreams. He’s my I wish I had, but I’m glad I didn’t. I had consensual sex for the first time when I was 34 years old. Afterwards I thought, as Peggy Lee put it, is that all there is? Given that my sexual life so far has been overwhelmingly unfortunate, it should come as no surprise that I am fascinated but not quite obsessed with sex-particularly the sex I’m not having.

There are no names here. I am rather protective of my privacy and the privacy of others. Not that I feel the need to change names to protect the innocent. There are no totally innocent parties here. No one is blameless.



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