So I kept ordering Pinots, observing this tragic man, slightly buoyed by how I was faring much better than him and the women who had encountered him. And as I made out with him while waiting for my Lyft Line to arrive, my brain suddenly snapped awake to this blunder.I opened my eyes and was confronted by his placid face, so like a baby camel’s.I’d been sure that this guy was SO incredibly fucked up, that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. I fessed up to wishing bitterly for ethical partnership and creative success and a different president.What I neglected to see was that I identified with him. As a sorrowful figure who woke up into a mess with no clear solution, my drifting midlife crisis yoked well with his whole-life crisis. ”I realized that I was sloshing around in too much resentment. Then I decided to accept that my desires could remain like a thousand-piece puzzle still in the box, unassembled.Maybe I wanted to be the self-centered asshole in a relationship.Either way, I behaved like a cranky senior who didn’t get any visitors except this one junior orderly. We lived in the most expensive city in America; carrying us both made me feel superior.“Babe,” he once called to ask, “is it OK if I go out tonight with my coworkers? And be here in the morning.”When he showed up at my house — still bleary from tequila shots, explaining that he had lost his cell phone at a bar and blacked out — I launched into a matronly reprimand about his bad choices and how he couldn’t afford to replace his phone with the child support he owed.“And don’t think I’m going to buy you a phone and reward your dumb behavior.”He glared at me, quivering like that kid from Stanley Kubrick’s , and said, “I’m sorry. “It’s this Hollywood classic where a faded actress keeps a younger man. He bowed out the door peacefully, and I chased him barefoot down Fillmore Street, feeling mean-spirited and craven.Sources say the two have been keeping their new relationship very quiet and have been doing everything to avoid being seen together in public.
They wanted a full program of cock-centric sex, custody days with their soccer-loving kids, and nights with their power-nerd friends who would not let me play the tortured Amy Winehouse songs.
But I was suffering through the disability I call “middle life” and needed comfort.
Turning 42 brought on self-criticism and disappointment that flowered like a bruise.
By Valentine’s Day, the current of political resistance had pushed me to the edge.
After that breakup, I vowed to never make a submissive deal for love again.