I Know What I Don't Want

And since I know what I don't want, it should be easy to figure out what I do? Right? I know I don't want the kind of relationships I already shared with two ex-husbands. The first one I married just to get out of my controlling parents' house. I was twenty. I had wanted to become a nun since I was, like, ten but the timing wasn't right. By the time I graduated from high school, convents wanted 'em older and wiser, not young and gullible. They weren't happy with a high school diploma anymore. They didn't even want a Bachelor's. They all seemed to want women in their mid-to-late twenties with all the chops to start a career in teaching, nursing, the what-have-you that nuns do.

So, I made the mistake of telling several convents I was going to go to medical school. I can just picture the prioress generals' faces when they read that on my applications. Unfortunately, my desire to become a bride of Christ didn't make it after even two years at a public university filled with cute guys. I wonder how many applicants to religious institutions actually make it through all the years of college the convents expect them to complete before donning a habit?

My first husband wasn't the reason I stuck it out for ten years and even brought his baby boy into the world at the last minute before he ditched me for the daughter of a Texas oil millionaire. I loved his parents. I did. I still do. His dad was unusual for a reason I won't divulge here. And his mom shaped pancakes like Mickey Mouse. I'll never forget them even if I do him.

He introduced me to alcohol. Lots of it. So much so, I barely remember my twenties. I did some pretty whacky things that I ought to regret but can't. He tried to introduce me to pot and coke and meth, but I drew the line on drugs. I won't get into how he died here. It was sad, though. I had a family law judge apologize to me for not paying attention to my warnings. Oh, well. I had my son.

My second husband was probably a rebound thing. I dated for two years but nothing got serious. Then, out of the blue my first husband presumed he had two wives. It was shortly before he died. He even became a Mormon so he could. That led to my second marriage. If I'd known #1 was going to off himself, I might not have done it. In other words, I didn't put much stock in my own intelligence.

I married to run away the first time and to, well, run away again. Pretty dumb. Okay, so now I know what I don't want--to meet someone and marry just to escape an intolerable situation. That leaves a huge field of potentiality as to what I do want. And that's a problem. You see, it's like walking past the coffee aisle at Walmart. Too many damn choices. Which is better? Which provides more for the buck? Which is tastier? Which is smoother? Which comes in pods? Which actually tastes like coffee?

So, I realized I needed to list some requirements for a potential partner. The first two were pretty lame. First, I want someone with whom I can share my interest in writing, someone who isn't threatened by my interest in writing. Second, I want someone to travel with, someone who likes exploring romantic beaches and navigating noisy city streets (preferably Chicago) to find museums and ice cream vendors. Third, I want someone who likes to laugh and has a sunny personality. They don't have to think everything I say is funny, but they need to crack some clever jokes themselves. Fourth, I want someone who likes an adventure. Just not bungy-jumping, shooting the rapids, or surfing in shark-infested waters. Fifth and finally, I want someone who thinks about what he says. Who has an open mind. Who doesn't camp on social media sites but actually comes up with his own ideas, his own take on life. Someone willing to listen and to learn.

OMG, I just described my cousin Karen!