I enjoy harmonious music, words strung together in a tapestry of beautiful prose, and paintings that evoke emotion. I subscribe to the golden rule, and renew that subscription every day during my deliberate meditation.

So, imagine my surprise when I started tasting rage in my gullet as I tuned in to watch the new reality series…The Real Assholes of Washington DC. I tried to delete it from my DVR, but there must be something wrong with the damn thing. This new show is on every channel.

It’s changed my eating habits. I’m now on the angst diet. For those unfamiliar, I chew my cuticles instead of eating real food. Between you and me, these cuticles make me…well…gassy.

I got snarky with a customer service rep regarding a $5.00 credit to my account. My desperation felt so real… like I was in dispute over $100,000.00. Who in the hell buried my golden rule?

I’m wondering if anyone knows how to get this freakin’ reality show off my damn DVR. It’s ruining my life!

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“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.

I have to admit, his dark eyes were brimming with compassion as he looked down at my tear soaked face. He reached behind him for a tissue, then gently dabbed each of my eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice was low and soothing, and my head tilted towards him and into the comfort of the sound.

It was one of those summer days in Florida where dark clouds had held the sun hostage all day. The rain, unlike my tears, had been held at bay. It made for a thick, uncomfortable atmosphere, not unlike the aura in this room

From my chair, I looked at the floor to ceiling windows and imagined myself rising and careening through them, landing on the pavement seven stories below….mercifully dead. How much more could I endure?

“Oh God,” I said. “Are you really like all the rest? Seriously, this isn’t high school. I’m in my fifties for God’s sake!”

We’ve been together six years and like any relationship, there have been been peaks and valleys. This wasn’t the first time he’d apologized for hurting me. Inside, I’m screaming, if you’re really sorry then stop hurting me! You need to unfuck this.

Instead, I hear myself say, “Is it something I’m doing?”

“No, it’s not you,” he assured me. “Believe me, it’s not the outcome I’d hoped for.”

I turned my palm to him, hoping he’d stop right there. I didn’t know if I could bear the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.

“I really need to see you next week,” he said. “I know it’s asking a lot but, please.”

“So soon?” I so wanted to break up with this man.

He handed me a single white rose, taken from a vase on the counter. I could see he’d taken great care to pick the prettiest one. As if that could fix everything….

I could feel that familiar pull. I didn’t want to see him but… I took the rose and nodded in silent affirmation. After all these years he knew I was saying, yes I’ll come back, because I’ve always done whatever he’s asked of me.

He turned away from me then. Maybe it was guilt or sympathy that made him reach into the vase and hand me another white rose. He quickly pressed it into my hand, and left the room. He just couldn’t let me go. I almost felt sorry for him.

In my twenties, I had my share of these tête-à-têtes. Bittersweet, poignant moments. I never imagined that in my fifties the same weary verses would continue to spin around, like a record that never wears out.

But what’s really blindsided me is having this conversation, not with my lover, but….with my dentist!

As Bob Dylan once crooned, “the times they are a changing.”

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“I’m worried about you,” Kay said.

I dipped my face into a balloon wine glass and sipped Pinot Grigio. “Why?” I fingered my hair, stalling. I really didn’t want to talk about this.

“You don’t laugh the way you used to. I miss hearing that.”

I forced a giggle, hoping to please her, or tease her, or get her to retreat.

“What was that?” she said, her blue eyes questioning. “I’ve known you 25 years and never heard you make a sound like that.”

I looked everywhere around me, but not at her. The floors were wooden and warped from humid Florida air repeatedly moving over and through it. The mirror behind the bar filtered our images through a salty film. My eyes intently followed a waiter, wishing his tray laden with dirty dishes would plummet; the ensuing crash would rescue me, I was sure.

“Jacquie” she persisted. “It almost seems as though you’re losing your confidence.”

A cackle blew through my lips and exploded into the bar unassisted. My laugh is like that; bold, head turning, incendiary. “Internet dating will do that to a person,” I told her.

A damp breeze touched her golden hair, moving it and setting it back in place.

“It’s a numbers game,” I muttered. “They say even a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in a while.”

Her mouth curved in pity. “And that’s so not you. Oh, I can’t imagine how hard…” her voice trailed.

Note to self…next project…invent pity repellant.

I tilted the glass, feeling the opposite rim touch my forehead as I sucked down the few remaining drops of wine. “It’s about ‘atta girl’ sex,” I explained. “It’s not about having someone to pay the bills, or putter around the house fixing things, or be there if I’m sick. For me it’s about having a really good day….when I feel like I’ve written my best work yet, or helped some kid in court by being his guardian ad litem, and then going home to an empty house.” I raised my glass to the bartender, suggesting another round.

Kay’s head jerked up and her eyes widened. “I’ve been married 35 years and never thought of that. But I actually do still have ‘atta girl’ sex!” She sounded so pleased to be enlightened. “So that’s why you’ve been down?”

“Pretty much sums it up,” I replied as the bartender set glasses brimming with wine in front of us.

Kay laughed and lifted her glass in toast. “Thanks…now I finally understand.”

It was when she reached over and squeezed my hand, still laughing; that I knew she realized the deeper meaning.

So, if you try, you can push pity more towards empathy. But just in case, I’m going to think more about that pity repellant……………

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More interesting to me, is Mrs. Weiner and what we all suppose she must be feeling. To be sure, she must be angry, embarrassed, appalled, hurt…too many emotions to separate and stuff into individual boxes. For now, they’re all lumped together like congealed oatmeal. It’s impossible to ferret out each oat…unbearable to swallow in one gulp.

But if she’s like most of us…I had a terrible husband and didn’t know it… women, the biggest specter of all is the…OMG! How could I be so dumb! It’s the tumor that’s takes up the biggest compartment of the brain. It’s knowing that the pity behind those kind eyes, hides an unspoken, how could she NOT know. Averted eyes scream tsk, tsk, tsk.

During my divorce from my terrible husband, I remember my stomach rolling, and my lips stretched tight against my teeth lest I bawl out, “But I didn’t know….you can’t blame me!”

They don’t know that the compliments hurt as much as the barbs. “She’s a woman in her own right…she’ll be fine.” If I was, I should have known better. “She’s brilliant.” Uhhhh…really? “Maybe she was in it for the power of his position, or the money?” Go fuck yourself.

So which will she be?
1. The Hillary Clinton… I know he’s a fool but I’m smarter than him. I’ll make sure he pays for it.
2. The Silva Spitzer…I don’t know what to do so I guess I’ll stand here at this press conference and hope they forget someday.
3. The Jenny Sanford…screw him, I’m outta here.

But if I could talk to Mrs. Weiner, I would tell her. Go find the pieces of yourself that you gave to him and take them all back. Make yourself whole again, and get right with you. Sure it’s a bit like a puzzle that violently spilled on a hard floor. There may be a few fractured bits, some corners curled from contempt and some of the pieces won’t fit exactly as they used to. But they’ll fit nonetheless. The picture won’t ever be exactly the same, but the beauty won’t suffer too greatly from the patina. Just be certain it’s mostly the picture you started. Your picture.

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