We met when I was 32. He was 7 years my junior, an unemployed snow bum living in a ski resort town in California. For some ungodly reason I found this attractive. In his defense, or mine, he was gorgeous, kind, and most importantly really laid back - a trait I initially thought would be a nice counter-balance to my hyper ambitious, alpha femaleness, but would instead become his greatest downfall. And the source of much hair-pulling; mostly my own though I desperately wanted to tug on his. Hard. Constantly. In case it got him off the couch. Which is where he spent most of his time. Unless he was surfing, which was often. There's nothing like having the "swell reports" dictate the quality of your relationship. In layman's terms, if there were waves, it was Goodnight Irene on any chance of having any sort of time at all together. If the ocean was flat, I'd get the little peckerhead at home, but he'd be so miserable - surfers need their fix like addicts need their drug - I'd just leave him to smoke a bowl, drink his organic, Oregon micro-brewery beer, and sink further into the depths of the couch. Which of course I bought. Because he didn't work. And therefore couldn't afford to buy anything.
Zack is what is known as The Monk - an archetype used by Neurobiologists to describe the type of guy who has no interest in being in the real world. Instead they see responsibility as the trappings of modern life. Stuff like jobs, bills, health insurance. In fact, when I pressed him about getting the latter, especially because he engaged in dangerous sports like surfing and snowboarding, his reply was, "I don't plan on getting into an accident." And he was serious. This is what I was up against. Instead of grounding themselves in common sense like the rest of us mere mortals, The Monk dreams of more ethereal pursuits; namely anything that doesn't involve working. In Zack's case it was reading Henry Miller in the garden, waxing his surfboard, or taking long walks in nature. All sounds good but they come at the expense of taking care of the basics.
"Maybe he'll calm you down. You know how you get," my mother proclaimed, hopefully. The whole "opposites attract" theory became the thing we both clung to when things got really bad between Zack and I. Which they did at regular intervals.
To her credit she was trying to be supportive, knowing full well it would be better to let me figure out he was a dud, instead of inserting herself into my relationship, telling me how wrong this much younger man was for me. She did that once, with Patrick, the only BAD guy I dated, and I didn't speak to her for 3 months. Poor woman. She was right about him all along too. She knew Zack wasn't right for me either. I could hear the subtext in her voice, despite choosing her approach very carefully - she didn't think Zack was any better, albeit "not better" in an entirely different way. While Patrick was manipulative and controlling, Zack was ultimately harmless. In fact, he had one more move than a dead man. This was a guy who had NOTHING going on. Nothing! So how did he manage to convince me he was worth it? He didn't. I reappointed myself Mayor of Oxytocin City (see POST number 1) and slept with him that first week we met at the ski resort. And in that instant, I was doomed.
He was so damn nice that for the first 6 months, that infamous honeymoon period where all is perfect in the land of love, none of this really bothered me. I was busy working, trying to find us a place to live near the beach, helping him find a job. I did these things to satisfy what was bubbling underneath,the growing subtext of my life that seems to hit a gal in her early 30's, something I couldn't really articulate at the time. I wanted stability.
Yes, I had just started to crave security and the idea that maybe buying a house and planting roots was something I might finally want to do. I even started looking into such mundane things as retirement funds, hiring a business manager and raising my credit score so I could get more aggressive interest rates. I would ask Zack if these things were important to him, and his reply would always be something along the lines of "I want what you want. I want you." I'd get hopeful that he'd step up his game. Sure enough, weeks would go by and he would do nothing to achieve anything on our supposed joint list of goals and dreams, leaving me frustrated, angry and resentful.
Isn't it interesting that a woman who suddenly wants stability picks a guy who would be just as happy living in an RV by the ocean, toes dangling in the sand, gazing at the stars? I was playing something out for myself, but what that was I would have no idea until many years later. It would take some intense therapy, introspection, and a bitter break up for me to really get serious with why I ended up in this mess in the first place. I CHOSE him. Albeit subconsciously. I CHOSE him because his inexperience allowed me to barf up all my unresolved issues, affording me the opportunity to really take a look at what was still unhealed. Even when I was the worst version of myself, he stuck it out. And for a girl with abandonment issues, there's nothing more valuable than that. I CHOSE him because he helped me to see that I was no longer interested in being the boss in my personal life (work gave me my fix on that front), that I wanted a real man to step in and let me relax for once. You know, take the reins and the load of my shoulders. This young man was never going to be that, and once I understood this reality, I resented him for making me fall in love with him. At least that is how I saw it at the time. That would change, but it would come much later.
Eventually, at 35 I finally left him. In the meantime, I would endure 4 years of absolute hell on earth. Frustrating, painful, excruciating love - the kind of love that in your head you know isn't right, that he's not the one, but every other part of your body craves him like some sort of addiction making it impossible to let go. When those two opposing forces fight a daily battle against each other, it can drive a person insane. It almost did.
Sometimes the contrast between what we have and what we really want is life's biggest gift for it thrusts us into action, hurtling us towards our true desires, wants and needs. Sure I wish I didn't spend half my thirties figuring this out, but I got there. In the end. And I'm a better woman for it.
My dalliances with younger men would get better, my expectations of them newly managed, never again exceeding what I know their limited years and experience can offer. Now I see them as a fun diversion while I await my partner in crime to arrive. So Clyde if you're out there...
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