(This is great background music while you’re reading this. Unfortunately, I had to give it to you a little ghetto since imbedding it in my blog costs more than I have these days!)))
In my observation, I had rebounded, and I didn’t even know it. It’s all so clear to me now, but when I was in the middle of it, I had no idea that I was just a woman on the prowl seeking my next prey to satisfy my long-neglected desires in a sexy rendezvous.
After nearly seven years of a one-sided, mentally exhausting relationship, I spent a couple of years cheating on the side. I met with men, I met with women, I met with individuals in dark rooms, and I took on groups of suitors sometimes. Really, cheating was exhausting, and I didn’t really enjoy it. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as people make it sound. I would find myself perched in my car, rehearsing the conversations to come so I didn’t call out the wrong name when things got hot and heavy.
When you’re in the throes of a potential life-long passion, no John Doe wants to be called Jane.
I did my homework. I found out everything I could about the people with whom I may bed. I found out their secrets, their tricks, was ready for everything that they would tell me that I knew they say to all the other girls, too.
I was nobody’s fool. I was leaving my other partner on my terms, and on my terms alone. I had spent so many years shackled to the wall, speaking only when spoken to, being allowed out of the basement for an hour a day for Yard Time.
It was my turn to paint the town red and slide under the sheets with whomever I damned well pleased. And so, after many, many meetings in dark alleys behind the dumpster and years of exchanging my pillow talk for theirs, I finally got it out of my system. I was done cheating. With all of this effort, such an assertive, master-minded effort, there was no way that I was going to be the ragdoll in the basement any longer. No more would I stand for giving my partner explicit use of my emotions for their own entertainment purposes.
I was on my way.
Apparently, I was just in a serious rebound. In the weeks since, it’s become incredibly clear to me that I was, in fact, willing to take whatever was given to me. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t flee one relationship to become a man-eater. It’s not my style. As far as I was aware, my full intentions were to enter into this marriage with the idea that it would far exceed my prior relationship.
It was a wolf in sheep’s clothing that came out from under the bed one night. The truth of the matter is that, no matter how long you date, how you met, how many secrets you divulged to each other prior to taking the big leap, you never really know what you’re getting into until you’ve gotten into it.
Relationships, just as life, need to be at least an attempt of equal parts give and take. As I was packing up to move out of my already-temporary new home, I was told that I hoped I learned something about myself.
I did. I learned that this must have been a rebound because, as committed as I was and as eager and willing I was to be the good wife, I wasn’t willing to give more than I could take. in fact, I learned that I really couldn’t take any more at all.
I did not cheat with intent. But you can always tell a relationship that isn’t going to last if you look back at it when you’re still in the honeymoon phases, and you can’t even remember that first electrifying kiss that got you hooked in the first place.