Close Encounters Of The Ex-Husband Kind

First of all, I must offer an apology. To all of you who have come here seeking advice and reassurance from me, to all of you who have emailed and messaged, pouring your hearts out and thanking me for showing you that it is possible to get through a really hard divorce and be okay:

I'm sorry.

Because I am always the one waving the flags, cheering loudly and preaching about how you will survive, how you will be able to forgive and how you will get over it. I'm the one answering your heartbreaking pleas for help with paragraphs full of empowerment and hope.

"You've got this, sister!" and
"Yes, it hurts like hell when your hopes and dreams are blown to bits but you WILL rise again and be fabulous!" and
"There will come a day when seeing him won't be like a sharp knife being thrust right between your shoulder blades."

I crow about how well parallel parenting has worked for me. How basically pretending my ex-husband doesn't exist has made everything okey-dokie. Peachy keen. The bee's freaking knees!

I'm sorry to inform you that I'm full of shit. Kind of.

Why do I say I'm full of shit? Because a couple of weeks ago, I came face-to-face with my ex, and I didn't handle it the way someone who is fully recovered would have.

I handled it like an immature tween. Or worse, like a temperamental preschooler.

Let me set it up for you, okay?

Three nights a week I work late. Our elementary school has a before/after school childcare program, and there needs to be someone in the front office until they are closed, for security purposes.

Our gymnasium is used by our local Park and Rec department after school hours. There are a variety of programs offered, everything from adult volleyball leagues to martial arts to toddler gymnastics.

When I'm in the office those three evenings, sometimes I encounter the people coming into our school to participate in the Park and Rec programs.

See where I'm going with this?

So there I was, in the office that is essentially my home-away-from-home, doing what I do. Making copies, filing stuff, entering super important facts onto super important spreadsheets. Minding my own sweet business.

There's a Park and Rec employee who has a desk outside of our office. He is the one who usually buzzes people in for those non-school activities.

That day, his buzzer was broken. So, every so often I'd hear a little bumpy noise at my door, and I'd buzz the people in.

I was walking back to my desk from the copy room, and I saw a person standing outside the door. I rushed over to hit the button, to let them in. And that's when I saw who it was.

It was my ex. I froze, people. Like a mother effing popsicle. Did I mention that he wasn't alone?

He was there with his child, his little toddler/person he made with Secretary.

It was like a scene from the Matrix, only instead of Keanu Reeves in a long black coat dodging slow motion bullets, it was ME in a flowy black burka top and leggings, begging the universe to rip open so I could escape.

Our eyes met, and his face showed some shock. And some disbelief. Here's what my face looked like, at first:

image: Salon.com

Yes, the Rachel Dratch/Debbie Downer look is hot, y'all. I was trying really hard to process the moment. In those few seconds, every single thing that has gone down over the past decade tumbled over and under and through me. The good. The bad. And oh my God...the ugly.

Seeing him knocked the air out of me. Seeing him being all fatherly and sweet with a little kid who looks SO MUCH like our sons? I'll be honest with you. It made me sick. It dug up the bones of all my supposedly dead issues and they did a macabre little jig, right there in that little school office. Neither of us said anything.

What was there to say? I suppose I could have played it cool. Played it like most mature people would have done. I could have said:

"Oh, hey. How's it going?" or
"Hello." or maybe
"Well, fancy meeting you here!"

I could have gone the really snarky route and said something bitchy.

"Wow! So you're actually parenting this one?" or
"Oh my gosh what a cutie. How long until you walk out of his life?" or perhaps
"Hi, Satan."

Of course I didn't say any of that. The mature things I didn't say because obviously, I'm not mature. The snarky things I didn't say because I do have a heart, and I respect my place of employment too much to drag that crap in there. Also, it's not cool to be a dick in front of kids.

But, what I did do is something I'm not proud of. It wasn't even something I did with any intention, it was a physical response. I swear on all things holy and pure, it was a knee-jerk reaction.

I made a face.
I made a freaking face at my ex-husband.

Now, like I said, it was something organic. It happened naturally, without any thought behind it whatsoever. I have scoured the internet looking for the perfect picture, but couldn't find one. So, I tried to replicate it in selfie form. Here's what I looked like:

Yes. It was the look of someone who had just stepped in dog poop. Barefoot.

He looked at me, and then looked down at his boy. I suppose to make sure none of the scathing lasers from my crazy Marty Feldman eye had burned the lad. He looked back at me, one more time, and I was still in face mode.

Only by that time, the shock was beginning to wear off and I'm sure the sadness showed.

After he left my office, I began shaking. Not like, withdrawal shakes or anything, but a trembling-hand sort of thing. I felt sick to my stomach, just a little bit. And there was something else.

I felt ashamed.

Ashamed that I didn't just say hello. Ashamed that there he was, enjoying a fun night with his child and there I was, working in an elementary school office, buzzing people in like a nightwatchman.

Ashamed that after all these years, after all these words, after all of my HEAR ME ROAR proclamations and after all of the so-called bravery and forgiveness and recovery I'm always spewing...

I made a face. That's all I had.

On the brief drive home I ranted to myself. Beat myself up a bit, and also, calling him out. Telling the imaginary him in my car what a shitty person I think he is, what a cruel man he is, what a heartless meanie he is. I gripped the steering wheel hard, like I was on the Autobahn instead of a little Minneapolis suburb street.

When I got home, the boys were gone. Out with friends, playing basketball at the park. I was alone with my shame and my anger. I texted my best friend and poured out the contents of my heart. She listened. She comforted.

I made a martini, and then I sat out on my porch and I cried.

How's that for "moving on"?
How's that for "getting over it"?

After I recovered from FaceGate '15, I decided a few things. Number One: maybe this parallel parenting thing isn't all it's cracked up to be. Perhaps if I was forced to interact with him on a more regular basis, seeing him wouldn't be such a shock. But there's the rub...we don't have many opportunities to be face to face. And as much as I'd like to nudge my maturity along, I sure as hell am not going to call him up and invite him to coffee just to desensitize myself.

Number Two, is that I need to admit to myself, and to those of you who are here seeking advice and support, that I'm not that strong. I'm not as far along in the healing process as I claim to be.

Number Three...this shit is hard. And some days are harder than others. We need to be forgiving, not only to those around us, but to ourselves. It's like I tell so many women just beginning this trek: You're going to screw up. And that's okay.

We are all going to be okay. Right?