This is not going to be as much about cute boys and what they want as you might think. And I have sort of battled myself over whether to write this one, because it could be a bit like opening a vein. But I’d like to think I have a little perspective on this by age 50. Or maybe I really don’t, and that’s why I need to write about it. So here goes.
I have a sort of long and stinging history of being the “friend” to the boys. Founder and President of the “Friend Zone”, if you will. The one to whom the male of the species feel they can say, “So, tell me about this friend of yours… She’s really cute/smart/funny/sexy... (pick an adjective)… Do you think she would like me??” This dynamic dates pretty much back to grade school, and now that I am single again, it appears to still be alive and well.
Most of the time, I find this only slightly annoying. I know the drill and I cannot afford to be bothered by it. So I roll my eyes, take a deep breath, and tell them everything they want to know about my beautiful and amazing friend. And since my friends are amazing, that is an easy thing to do. I’m not saying it’s never painful, but there are worse challenges to have. The only time it really hurts is when the male in question is one for whom I myself have been holding out some measure of hope. I have only encountered this a few times in my life, but when it does happen, it is an acid burn to the heart. At any age. In order to recover from such blows, I have had to learn to file the experience under “Things That Just Are What They Are”, aka “Things I Cannot Change”. This is the file I hand off to God for processing.
Last Thursday would have been my 29th wedding anniversary, and 3 days prior to that marked 6 years since my husband told me he wanted out. In light of the topic at hand, the irony of my marriage was that we were never really friends. Kinda tough to accept, when being a friend was the one thing I thought I was good at. In that oh-so-amicable discussion 6 years ago, he said he wanted to “remain friends”, but this has not occurred. Perhaps because you cannot remain what you have never been. But it has not been for lack of trying on my part. I have used all of my “be a good friend” chops in numerous attempts to make the aftermath smoother, but it has not seemed to help.
So the issue of the ex-husband also goes in that file I hand off to God. In fact, every challenging relationship that I have with other people goes into that file. Because no matter how kind, or clever, or well-intentioned I think I am being, I have learned that when it comes to the agency of others, I have ZERO control. Which is as it should be.
My children test me in this area consistently, particularly my youngest son, who informed me on that same Thursday last week that the school plans we had laid out for this year were not going to work for him. My response was less than stellar. There was screaming and lecturing and frustrated tears on my part, while this 13-year-old boy sat calmly, holding back his own tears and frustration, (a new level of maturity for him) waiting for me to finish my tantrum so he could tell me exactly why he was feeling what he was feeling. The jury is still out on how we will resolve this issue. And the fact that parenting this boy will never be a cakewalk is another of those things that I put in that divine file.
The bottom line is that the people I love the most are always going to choose what they want to choose, regardless of what I think, and I have found that the best (and perhaps only) way to deal with this is to change the way I think about it.
Rather than feel sorry for myself when I see my friends getting stormed by good-looking men, (and I am not so naïve as to believe there isn’t a negative flip side to that dynamic as well…) I choose instead to believe that the one man that God has reserved for me is being polished and prepared by adversity, (as am I) and will be worth the wait. (As will I.)
Rather than mourn “what might have been” in my marriage, I choose instead to celebrate the day in the temple, where I was married; to walk past the always-open door of the room where the ceremony took place, and feel hope instead of regret. I choose to be grateful for the six amazing children and two grandchildren that came from that union. And to further be grateful that the most taxing thing about them is that they are too independent!
I choose to be grateful that I had just come from the temple and had the spiritual strength to handle what felt like a devastating setback, when my son told me what he did last Thursday night. I still did not handle it very well at the time, but my son did. And now I feel like we will be able to find an answer if we work together and exercise mutual respect for one another.
There are things in life that just ARE what they are. My marriage did not make it. But the next one might. My kids will not necessarily choose the path I wish they would. But they are healthy, and they are creative and funny, and they are with me. And the cute boys might always want me to introduce them to my friends. But someday, there might be one who does not. And I only need one.
