I’ve got some beef with the Former Friend. I’ve called her a lot of things in the past couple of years, including themarriedladyfromchurchwhoranoffwithmyhusband, so FF is probably as good as it’s gonna’ get for the foreseeable future. I try not to say her actual name, because it causes my lip to curl unattractively, and I don’t want to work against any of my high-dollar anti-aging creams.
her name tastes bad in my mouth
I have spent over a year avoiding this particular post, but I’m under the gun now. My self-imposed drop-dead date of November 30th for pissing and moaning over my broken heart means it’s now or never for airing grievances against the FF. (Worry not, I’m sure that I will find new and better things to complain about).
Let’s start with a disclaimer: no, I am not, nor have I ever been, qualified to cast the first (or any of the subsequent) stones. (We don’t need a bunch of people from the eighties leaving snarky comments about how I had it coming…I’ve ‘fessed up already , to God and everybody).
Next, I will acknowledge that she is not the worst person in the world. She certainly behaved badly, in respect to my family (and to her own), but I have known her to have some nice qualities as well. She (along with her then-husband) took really great care of her aged parents during their dementia and final illnesses. She loves animals. She’s fun at parties. OK, that’s all I’ve got.
The first thing that seriously chapped my ass about the whole “getting unceremoniously dumped after twenty-five years of marriage” thing was that I considered her to be such an unworthy love object. In so many ways, she is the anti-Sharona (which I’m sure is part of the whole point), but still! She is (literally) about half the woman that I am…short, small and skinny. (I know, yuck, right?).
For years, she refused to use email because she “hated the internet”. She once complained to me that her i-pod nano was “too complicated”.
Even people who like her describe her as helpless and needy. She is the baby of a large family, and to my knowledge, she never worked full-time in her married life. A financially and emotionally supportive husband made it possible for her to pursue her ART (and ultimately, my husband), without being encumbered by child-rearing, cooking, or other mundane domestic tasks. Reportedly, however, she did help take care of her own cat when her dear husband was working out-of-town.
Did I mention that she’s older than me, and reeks of patchouli? What husband runs off with an older woman? Our society makes allowances when a successful man acquires a hot trophy wife, but what the hell was this? A slap in the face, that’s what! In the early days of our separation, I spent hours mentally reviewing her faults (agitate, spin,repeat). I composed stinging retorts to imaginary conversations we might have, and vividly imagined myself delivering the hair-pulling she so richly deserved.
I wasn’t consoled by her (in my judgement) unworthiness, I was mortified. How awful must I be to lose my husband to that eighty pounds of nothing? What if I had been thinner, sweeter, less bossy, and more submissive? Less Sharona-like altogether? Would my husband have believed that I needed him? Because I did. Not to help me use my i-pod, but I needed him.
Of course, so much of divorce recovery has been about owning my part in the failed marriage, and also realizing that it wasn’t all about me. Some of it was, maybe more of it should have been, but mostly their affair wasn’t about me at all. I can accept that nobody meant to fall in love, and sh*t happens, and blah blah blah, but the beef between me and the FF comes down to a couple of very uncool (nay inexcusable) things:
1. you carried on in my own house (and both of my children witnessed enough to make them feel guilty, worried and uncomfortable).
2. you cheated in the context of church work, which made your affair destructive to even more families than yours and mine.
3. On at least 20 occasions, you clutched the W.N.E.’s arm in my presence and said in a sickly sweet voice, “oh Sharona, can I borrow your husband?”, or “you’ve got the most talented husband” (as you batted your skimpy lashes at him).
4. When I would come home from volunteering to find you in my home (bold as brass), drinking tequila with my husband, you would say, (same sickly tone), “Sharona, you’re such a GOOD person”, (which apparently means “clueless dumbass”).
5. You had the nerve to hug me (in my own kitchen) and say, “I’m sorry” (which apparently means, “sucks to be you”, in your language), after I had discovered your affair.
So, for those little memories, screw you and the horse you rode in on. I don’t like you, nor have any respect for you, and we aren’t ever going to be friends. I can tolerate you at future life events (weddings and funerals), if necessary, but you would be wise to stay the hell away from me.
