I wrote the following essay a few years ago which
I'm posting now in order to remind self that by remaining both married and
single, I'm having my cake and munching it - so why complain? I hope you like
it.
Would you look at the time? It’s two hours to the divorce hearing. Yes, I know I should be getting ready instead of sitting here dithering, but give me a moment would you? My feet are freezing and I need to think. The fact is I’m not sure I want a divorce. On the other hand, I definitely need to end the marriage. So, why the cold feet? Well, here’s the thing: As long as I’m married to one disaster, I can’t marry another. Ever.
Would you look at the time? It’s two hours to the divorce hearing. Yes, I know I should be getting ready instead of sitting here dithering, but give me a moment would you? My feet are freezing and I need to think. The fact is I’m not sure I want a divorce. On the other hand, I definitely need to end the marriage. So, why the cold feet? Well, here’s the thing: As long as I’m married to one disaster, I can’t marry another. Ever.
After all relationship break-ups are no
different to childbirth. Women who have more than one child do so because they
forgot about the excruciating agony of labour. They also forgot about the
sleepless nights, mangled nipples, and years spent struggling to regain control
over their bladders and finances rendered incontinent in the process. After the
birth of my son, I swore blind I’d never have another. A year later, I swore
never again to relationships when I left his father. But what did I go and do? You
guessed it. Married another, had my daughter, and swore some more.
Not that I’d be without
either of them now of course. The children I mean. And their fathers come to think of it. For without one, I wouldn’t
have the other. But being a single parent twice over is a pattern that doesn’t bear
repeating. And therein lies the problem.
Except it isn’t. I’m 40. The age at which fertility
is not so much in decline but braced for extinction. My egg supply is currently
disappearing faster than the Fabergé variety sell at auction and full-blown
menopause is but a barren hot-flush away. Divorce or no divorce,
nothing short of steroids will see me pregnant again. Problem solved.
Except it isn’t. Being 40 isn’t going to
stop me barking up the wrong man again. Quite the opposite in fact. I’m 40! It’s a seller’s market out
there for single, straight men! If I couldn’t snare a winner before now, what hope do I have for the
future? Particularly given the wibbly-wobbly-thighs, silver streaks, and two
children each with a different surname. Could I be any less appealing?
Eh, no. Apparently not. I’ve met someone. And while the optimist in
me is tempted to believe he could be the right one this time, I wouldn’t bet on
it. The fact is I
have the worst possible taste in men.
At 22, I fell in love with
an alcoholic and had his baby. At first I thought he was exciting and charming. And then I didn’t. By the time our son was
born I wanted him dead. Not only did he hog my gas supply during labour, he winked at me.
Repeatedly. The winking stopped when I missed a grab for the mask and latched onto
the family jewels instead. In fairness he took the pain. But not as a man I’m
afraid. More as a choirboy scaling high-do octaves. By the end even I agreed he
deserved a drink. As ever ‘just the one’ morphed into a three day bender and it was his
brother who drove me home.
After that, every time he
left the house I would imagine him falling under a bus. Then I would imagine the
police arriving to break the news. Death was instant, they’d
say. Then I would
imagine the funeral, and what I’d wear, and what hymns I’d choose, and how
dignified I’d be accepting sympathy.
But he didn’t die. Rather, he guzzled the rent
money, we got evicted, and I made good my escape, pushing the baby, dragging
the suitcases. We’d have taken a cab but he’d emptied my purse while I was packing.
Cut to a few years later
and I’d recovered sufficiently from the alcoholic to shave my legs, get out and
get sociable again. But what did I go and do? You guessed it. Jumped
straight back into toxic love again. This time with a married man - no divorce
pending. What can I say? I understood him; his wife didn’t. Or so I deluded myself into
believing at the time. How stupid can one woman be?
Plenty stupid. Two short planks of wood
stupid. Inevitably the affair sizzled and fried rebounding me into a blur of
meaningless flings until one day I woke up and decided I needed a husband. And a baby. In that short order.
Crash. Bang. Wallop. No sooner had I decided
this then I bumped into the divorce-in-waiting – an Egyptian diving instructor
I met while vacationing on the Red Sea. Talk about mistakes. This was a clangour. What on earth was I
thinking? But then again I wasn’t thinking. I was too busy being seduced by
melting brown eyes and pectorals to die for.
I can see it all so clearly
now. But of course
back then I could see nothing of the sort. All I could see was the man of my
dreams – Omar Sharif meets Yul Brynner – standing on my hotel balcony, legs
akimbo, hands on hips. “Wait for me in Cairo,” he growled in a spine-tingling foreign accent,
tossing aside the folds of his white robe and jumping over the railing back
from whence he came.
I was impressed. Bowled over. Knocked out. As much by the commanding
Romeo romance routine as by the whiff of danger wafting through the jasmine
scented night air. Egypt has forbidding rules governing horizontal activities
between unmarrieds. Had the patrolling god-squad caught us canoodling, they’d have bounced
him black and blue up and down a police cell.
He wasn’t caught. And he did follow me to
Cairo. But whereas I sped across the desert reclining on board a tourist bus
under army escort, he puttered far behind on a scooter which collapsed on
arrival.
Most people leave their
holiday romances at the airport. I imported mine six months
later and married him. Friends and family gave the marriage two minutes but in fact it lasted
three years.
It wasn’t the clash of
cultures that ended our marriage, or the language barrier, or even the five
miscarriages it took to produce our daughter. It wasn’t even the
relocation to Egypt coinciding with my son erupting into his teens. Although none of this
helped. The marriage ended because of an argument over dental floss and school
fees.
Up until then the Egyptian
had shown only an average interest in oral hygiene. The sudden obsession with
flossing, coupled with refusals to pay my son’s school fees, begged only one
question: Who’s been eating my porridge?
Ho, hum. What goes around
comes round. She understood him apparently. I didn’t. Not that I gave a toss about
the affair. That side of our marriage had ended long since. Around about the same time
he called his mother to check if it was okay to feed our daughter solids. She
was two months old at the time and gagging for the hard stuff. What was I supposed to do? After that I resumed
reading in bed. Up until then I told myself I didn’t mind switching the lamp off because
it bothered him. But I did mind. It drove me crazy lying there night after night with fingers itching to
tear open a book to know I was not alone.
It was my son’s education
that mattered. Not least because I was the one paying for it. Not the Egyptian. Where else could my son go
if not to the international school?
“Back to his grandparents
in Ireland,” he ordered. “You and the baby stay here.”
Yeah, right. Like that was ever going to
happen. Fuck you we’re out of here, was my first thought. Fuck me, was my second. Getting my daughter out of
Egypt would be impossible if he objected. Yes, I really was that
naive. As I type, I cringe. And there’s no excuse for it. I blubbered like a toddler when I watching
Sally Field limping towards the American Embassy gripping her daughter’s hand
in the film Not Without My Daughter. But like every other
woman who has found herself in that situation, I didn’t believe it could happen
to me.
Well it did and what
happened next was dust. He went to work and I grabbed the children and headed straight for the
airport, never once looking back at what I was leaving behind. I had all that I
needed with me – the children, cash for flights, and my daughter’s Irish
passport. I left the Egyptian everything. It wasn’t just the school
fees I paid for. I paid for the house, furnishings, banana trees and a
share in a diving business.
Still, there’s no point in
getting my knickers in a twist about all that now. What price freedom? The marriage is over and
there’s an end to it.
Except it isn’t. I still have to sign on the
dotted divorce line, remember? Which brings me neatly back to where I wandered off the point: What’s to stop me repeating
past mistakes? A one-way ticket to the looney bin that’s what. I need another husband like
I need a hole in the head. Problem solved.
Except it isn’t. The other reason I started
writing this was to figure out what to do about the date-in-waiting. But much like sliced bread,
it’s obvious now that I’ve thought about it. I shall go out with him. Why not? I deserve a treat. Not that I’ve any plans to
shave my legs just yet. And if I do that’s as far as it goes. Period. Occasional dating is the
perfect solution to the married but single parenting life. It will give me something
to look forward to outside of children and work and still leave me free to read
in bed at night.
Right. That’s that settled then
and times a wasting. I’ve children to care for and the single life to enjoy.
Goodbye.
