Book of Failures

by Amy Lyle

  That word divorcee is one of the reasons women wait so long to get divorced. No woman has ever gotten divorced and then posted on her timeline “I’m a divorcee!” It is one of worst words in the English language, rivaling “smear” and “phlegm.”

  I knew I was paying a divorce attorney to get divorced, but having an appointment to “look over some paperwork” and then suddenly finding myself officially divorced after thirteen years … well, I was caught off guard.

  The paralegal handed me a tissue and led me by the elbow out to the elevator to the parking garage. My mind started racing. What impact would the divorce have on my daughter? How could I afford to buy another house unless I was promoted? Would I ever have sex again?

  About halfway home I started to feel like there was a refrigerator on my chest. I tried to inhale deeply, but couldn’t. I broke out in a cold sweat. I called Sharon, my best friend and crisis manager, and ranted between strained breaths about my cervical exam, taking the Xanax, getting three new copies of Architectural Digest and the news of already being divorced. Sharon talked to me until I pulled into her driveway.

  When she opened my car door, I collapsed. She called 911, explaining that I “had collapsed, had severe chest pain and shortness of breath.” They were on their way.

  When the EMTs arrived, I was in the fetal position with Sharon spooning me in her bed. The EMTs quizzed Sharon: “Has she had any previous health or heart issues? Has this happened before? Is she a drug user?”

  Sharon, always the defender of my morality and dignity, said, “For God’s sake, no. She just found out she’s divorced and her doctor gave her a Xanax.”

  Both EMTs’ shoulders dropped, disappointed I wasn’t a more serious case requiring BVM ventilations, oxygen or at least the insertion of an oropharyngeal airway. “Anxiety attack,” they said in nonchalant unison.

  “She took a Xanax FOR anxiety,” Sharon reminded them.

  “It’s called a paradoxical reaction, when the effect of the drug is opposite to the effect expected, like pain medication causing pain. Don’t let her take any more of those. Just try to get her to relax.”

  Within half an hour, Sharon and I were watching Tyler Perry’s Big Mamma’s House 2, eating ice cream on the sofa and ordering Chinese dumplings from our favorite delivery place, Asian Table.

  Do not schedule a pap smear the same morning as your appointment with your divorce attorney—it’s too much probing for one day.

  CALL FROM SHARON THE VAGINA CALL

  Sharon and I have been friends for fifteen years and are at equal levels of crazy-town. She’s very busy running a painting company but calls me daily with ridiculous plots and schemes, injustices and fascinating facts. When I answer her call, it’s always as if I have missed the first few minutes of the conversation. I have peppered in a few of her calls throughout the book.

  Me: Hello?

  Sharon: My vagina’s too clean.

  Me: What?

  Sharon: I’m at the gynecologist's office … (incoherent chatter …)

  Me: What’s going on? Unusual cells? STD?

  Sharon: NO! There was a guy in the elevator and I couldn’t talk. The doctor said my vagina’s too clean and that’s why I’m having issues.

  Me: Hmm … I would think a vajayjay could never be too clean.

  Sharon: (Incoherent mumbling ending with …) Merry Christmas.

  Me: What?

  Sharon: I just saw the lady that works at the Publix Deli, Martha. You know Martha—she’s the one that turned me on to the store-brand turkey. It’s just as good—or better—than the pricey brands. It’s changed my life. She’s getting one of her moles checked on the fourth floor.

  Me: Oh.

  Sharon: She said not to put any soap on it.

  Me: On what?

  Sharon: Your Vagina! She said to let your body clean itself, otherwise you are creating a hostile environment. Don’t even ... wait a second.

  Sharon to Wendy’s drive-thru guy: Can I get a number two with cheese, no onion, ice tea—not sweet!

  Sharon to me: Don’t even use the shower sprayer. That’s like douching … Wait.

  Sharon to Wendy’s guy: No! Not sweet, unsweet! Yes, ice, of course, geez!

  Sharon to me: And if you ever take a bath, you are just sitting in your own filth. Do you hear me? Stop taking baths, you’re in your filth. I gotta get my burger. Bye.

  GETTING DIVORCED SUCKS

  After the divorce, on the ex’s weekends with our daughter, I would crawl into bed Friday night and not come out until Sunday morning—aside from getting a granola bar, taking a potty break or crying in the bathtub.

  Six months in, I threw myself into work and devoured Christian self-help books that include Bounce Back: When Your Heart Is Empty and Your Dreams Are Lost, by Julie Clinton, and Should I Stay or Go: Divorce and God’s Grace, by Mary Lou Redding.

  The books made me feel like no one should ever get divorced. But too late, I was. I did take comfort that God could not love me any more OR any less and that He had a plan for me. I read the secular books my boss suggested, such as Who Moved My Cheese, by Spencer Johnson, MD, and Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, by John Gray, which confirmed what I already knew: I hate change and I have zero understanding of the opposite sex.

  I’m lucky to be surrounded by smart women who forced me to snap out of my funk. My friend, Marjorie, told me, “There are few things that a good haircut and new panties can’t fix,” which I have discovered works for both heartbreak and pneumonia recovery. After I hit the one-year anniversary of my divorce, my girlfriends announced that I needed to “get back out there.”

  Sharon’s sweet husband, Scott, is like my older brother, except he’s a few months younger than I am. He’s wiser so he SEEMS older. Scott set me up a (blind) double date with one of his business associates, describing my date as “a nice-looking marketing guy that plays tennis and goes to church.”

  “Great!” I exclaimed, as I was feeling, as we say in the South, on fire for Jesus after all my Christian workbooks. We agreed to meet marketing/tennis guy at a Thai restaurant.

  When we pulled into a parking spot and saw marketing/tennis guy waving wildly with a giant smile on his face, Sharon nudged Scott and said, “Good God, you set Amy up with someone who hasn’t been laid in years!” Scott furiously defended his date selection on personality and character, plus marketing/tennis guy had already seen us, so we went in.

  Marketing/tennis guy said that he hadn’t played tennis lately because of a severe groin issue. Sharon kicked Scott under the table, feeling vindicated in her “Hasn’t been laid in ten years” comment.

  When marketing/tennis guy told us, “The last time I gave a urine sample, it had an olive in it,” followed by “I have good-looking kids—thank goodness my wife cheats on me,” the table got quiet. Sharon, Scott and I all sipped our drinks and waited. “I DON’T GET NO RESPECT,” he screamed. “Rodney Dangerfield!” Just then, the waitstaff came over. “RODNEY DANGERFIELD,” he told them, “I DON’T GET NO RESPECT.” The staff asked if he needed to see the manager.

  Over green-tea ice cream, he listed all the Jewish comics that he loved and could relate to because he was Jewish. He started imitating several comics, including Billy Crystal, Adam Sandler, Jerry Seinfeld, Larry David and Woody Allen, reminding us that they “are geniuses, all of them, and they all are Jewish!” Sharon, Scott and I agreed that yes, THEY were all geniuses.

  After a very long period of silence, marketing/no tennis guy pretended to get an important work call, even though it was Saturday, and his phone didn’t ring. I never heard from him again. How’s that for no respect?

  I WAS NOT TALKING TO YOU

  In 2008, when I was between husbands, I noticed a very attractive man trying to get my attention in the lane next to me. By “trying to get my attention,” I mean he was waving, honking and pointing like he wanted me to pull over.

  Normally I would avoid a man waving and pointing at me to pull over, but females outnumb
er males in Atlanta by almost 100,000, so I chose to risk it.

  I tried not to look directly at him as I wanted him to think I was above getting hit on in a moving car, barreling down Abernathy Road in Atlanta at lunchtime. I sped up and switched lanes and was surprised to see that he followed. Approaching a red light, I checked my mirror, slapped on some colored lip gloss, popped a mint into my mouth, and tried to act casual, as he pulled next to me and stopped.

  He honked and motioned for me to roll down my window. “Hey,” he said, “I was trying to get your attention for a while.”

  “Oh really?” I said, tossing my hair a little for dramatic effect. I could see that his car was very tidy, a very underrated trait in a man, and he was wearing a nice suit with a polka-dot tie, which to me says, I’m serious, but yet I can be playful. As I was fantasizing about where we would vacation together, he yelled, “The belt of your coat has been dragging down Abernathy for miles.”

  “Ohhhhhhhh, thanks,” I countered, hopeful he would continue what was already a mini-relationship in my mind. Pulling someone over to tell her that her belt was dragging was very considerate on many levels. He was concerned about my safety and that I might be ruining my garment.

  I must have been staring off into space as I wondered if his parents had a vacation home in the mountains and would let us use it when I was jolted back to reality. The car behind me was honking at me. The light had turned green, and he had already sped off, without even a wave goodbye.

  I CAN SEE YOUR BUTTONS

  Being single forced me to go places I never wanted to go, like the gym. I would drag myself there and watch reruns of Sex and the City as I walked on the treadmill two miles per hour enjoying 2,000-calorie chocolate protein smoothies. I gained five pounds.

  I tried Zumba and “Power Bar Class” but I am a threat to myself and others, as I have two left feet and zero balance. As I was enjoying my third episode of Sex and the City, one man after another seemed to be going out of his way to pause in front of my treadmill, give me a nod or smile, then move along. The attention was surprising, but it was summer and I had a little bit of a tan, so I was feeling more confident than normal in my white wife-beater tank and designer—yet slightly irregular— yoga pants from TJ Maxx.

  I jacked up the treadmill to 3 mph and sucked in my stomach. Another man walked by and smiled. I thought to myself, my mother must be right—I’m gaining muscle. I felt so good I

  started a slow jog. After two minutes of jogging I was completely winded, dripping in sweat, a little dizzy and very thirsty.

  As I headed to the ladies’ room I caught a glimpse of myself in the huge wall mirror. All I could see was an enormous nipple smashed up against a sweaty white T-shirt—oh my gosh, it was my own nipple! My sports bra had curled up under my left boob, elevating it several inches above the other. I looked like a lopsided participant in a wet T-shirt contest.

  Telling someone that their sweaty nipple has accidentally fled the confines of their sports bra falls into the same category as the “something in your teeth rule.” If someone has any humanity whatsoever, they will tell you when you have a piece of broccoli in your teeth and/or when your left nipple is on the loose. What is wrong with people? I decided then and there that I would quit the gym. As I headed out, I stepped on the scale one last time.

  I’d gained two pounds.

  DO YOU COME HERE OFTEN?

  Coincidentally, the same night I was on the worst date ever with the Rodney Dangerfield wanna-be impersonator, I met a very tall and handsome guy named Peter III. He would ask me out and I will lie and say I was busy; trying to play hard to get; when really, I was already researching him on Ancestry.com and picking out Irish names for our future children together. We ended up dating for over a year.

  Unfortunately, he was a snob. If you have ever dated a snob, you know it’s flattering … at first. Snobs are very elitist and make you feel privileged that they PICKED YOU! However, when a snob who was initially charmed by witty comebacks and silly dance moves eventually sees the real you (skirt tucked into underwear, broccoli in teeth) the fascination wears off. I allowed myself to feel inferior to the Prada-clad son of one of Cincinnati's elite.

  Peter III was also obsessed with golf and his job in sales allowed him to be on the links during the week with clients. Then, every Friday night there was a club event to attend and he played Saturdays and Sundays. He would choose to play golf over anything{6}in the world. Clearly, he had an addiction.

  After he’d canceled with me for the fourth time because his boss or his friend “needed a fourth,” I’d had enough. I wrote him a heartfelt letter about reorganizing his priorities, how playing golf seven days was ridiculous, and that he needed to choose: me or golf.

  Peter III chose golf. Within the year, he moved back to Cincinnati, got married and is expecting his first baby. Good for him.{7}

  A BETTER PETER

  While I was dating golfing Peter III, my friend, Marjorie, wanted to set me up with her friend, Peter Lyle. The strange part of the introduction between Peter Lyle and I was that, at one time, we had lived five houses apart but didn’t know one another. He lived on Woodbury Creek and I had lived on Woodbury Point. For the nine years that we lived in the same neighborhood, I had seen Peter a hundred times and he would never wave at me. Even if I walked his cul-de-sac with my cute golden retriever, he would barely give me a nod. I found him un- neighborly.

  And, my sister had previously had a crush on him. Traci was divorced and working as a swimming instructor and had the three Lyle children in her class. She told me that he would come in to pick up the kids in his work clothes and not even care that they jumped all over him soaking wet. I told her I knew exactly who he was and that he was not neighborly. (Peter’s only memory of me was that he thought my golden retriever must not have come from a good breeder because her head was way too pointy; well-bred retrievers have block heads.)

  Anyway, fast forward to my divorce, moving out of the neighborhood, dating the too-much-golfing Peter, breaking up with him, and Marjorie saying she wanted me to “Just talk to the new Peter—Peter Lyle.” She had told Peter that I was sort of a princess (high maintenance) yet I often swore like a sailor. He thought that was an interesting combination and agreed to message me on Facebook.

  Marjorie had told me he was an engineer and I already knew he seemed somewhat antisocial from his whole anti-wave stance, but for two months we messaged back and forth. Finally, I messaged: “I do have a phone” and gave him my number. He called me one second later, shocking me with his southern accent. He was “fixin’ to pick the children up from scole ‘round fo-wah.”{8}

  I called Marjorie immediately and voiced my concerns about his southern drawl. She tried to put me at ease: “He’s from Atlanta. What did you expect? Just go on an actual date with him.”

  Peter cooked for me on our first date, making the most delicious scallops and a fancy wilted spinach dish. We danced in my kitchen and he picked me up and set me on the kitchen counter to kiss me. Within months we were married. My sister held a grudge for years.

  OPPOSITES ATTRACT?

  Peter is from Georgia; I’m from Ohio. He is very proud of his southern heritage; I blame my roots for most of my shortcomings. I happen to know he’s embarrassed that I’m from the north because he introduces me as coming from “southern Ohio,” as if that will lessen the blow. Southerners aren’t partial to Ohio, as it was the birthplace of Civil War General William T. Sherman. Apparently, every self-respecting southerner was taught to despise him from listening to Gone with the Wind, while in utero.

  In addition to our north/south differences, Peter is left-brained, and I am right-brained. As an engineer, he enjoys making and following rules. I have always gotten away with bending the rules because as a sales person, if your numbers are good, you are granted a lot of flexibility and forgiveness. Peter is very anal about details. It rattles him that I never know how much money is in my checkbook and I don’t put events on our “Family Calend
ar.” I think he’s too rigid, always talking about paying the mortgage, health insurance and saving for the kids’ college.

  As a health consultant, he has to put together very complex acquisitions for hospitals that require years of preparation and negotiations. He approaches complex business challenges and loading the dishwasher with the same methodical precision. It can create a lot of tension in our house when everything is so important.

  One night, a project that he had been working on got sideways and at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday, he was on the phone trying to push the project along while also preparing for the Boy Scouts’ “Crossing the Bridge Ceremony” that was starting in half an hour.

  Pacing, Peter said into the phone, “By Friday, you have to have the APA including the FMV and then we’ll decide if an EA or a PSA is more appropriate. If the metrics on the FMV are favorable, then draft the LOI.”

  As he hung up the phone, he started rummaging through some boxes laid out on our bed. “This acquisition holdup is costing the hospital $50,000 a day, the attorney’s still missing the data from the regulators AND we may have to postpone the Crossing the Bridge Ceremony because no one can find the Webelos’{9} ceremonial neckerchiefs!”