is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
Unfolding, unleashing
Tuesday, January 8, 2008 
First, a little explanation,
a little rationale for my about-to-go-off just a teense. I don't want this to
be a blog based on bitching (although the occasional rant about Crocs-wearing
adults and playgroup certainly adds some flavor, doesn't it?) and I especially
don't want this blog to be about all the hooey happening in my life as a result
of my divorce. I try hard to be diplomatic. I meditate, center, pray, get still
and silent, laugh, make fun, talk on and on and freaking on and work really
hard to find the gift, the lesson, the it is really going to be OK in the
end-ness of the tiny, tremendous, terrifying and tough stuff. When I started
writing about the truth - that my marriage was not just struggling but coming
to a sudden close - I outlined rules for myself about what I would and wouldn't
disclose. It's not heroic (although a nice breastplate and cape would go nicely
with my petition for custody). It just is what it is and is what I've chosen it
to be.
Given all of that, I've not really written about the details. And that is a
good thing. Really. I need the lessons here more than anybody reading. I've
also chosen not to spill all the things that fucking suck about ending a
ten-year relationship, legally, parentally, financially, romantically, co-habitationally
and otherwise. Today, though, there's something that really fucking sucks that
needs to be said.
Do friends - friends who I knew before I was married and before I was a
mother and who have swilled martinis and attended stupid ass basket parties
and asked me to babysit their kids and invited me to playgroups and preschool
events and glorious adults only parties, friends who know me better than the
other person in this divorce, the friends who know the details of how this all
came undone and all of the turbulent emotional, monetary and living
consequences for me and for our son - do those people still have to employ the
almost-ex as their personal trainer?
Really? I mean, is it that necessary? Are the forty underworked,
barely-certified gym monkeys at Bally's not available to force you into another
set of ass-burning lunges or sprintervals?
Seriously, you need this particular trainer? Knowing all that you know?
That is fucked up. Completely, unfriendly-like fucked up.
In sixth grade, this is the stuff that made us hate our once-BFFs, totally ignoring them on the bus for months or weeks and most likely, just days at a time. It was what filled up lined paper notes, folded into fortune teller stars or left in desks for your grrrlfriend allies in the next social studies class.
In your one Women Studies class in college, you may recall definitions of horizontal hostility or male identification that strike a chord in happenings such as this between female friends.
Now, though. Now, when this about a family more than fitness or friendships (pardon, acquaintances), it is just fucked up.
I don't think I'm being (too) territorial here or (way) off-base. I am not asking for allegiance or anyone to ban any personal trainer. I'm not demanding that sides be taken. Just have some sense. Or at least some sensitivity. Help a sister out with a little bit of that.
Imagine, if you will, what you'd want if it was you in the situation, if it was far more than your biceps getting cut up. You'd agree then, right? That it is indeed a fucked up way to be (or not) a friend in this situation.
Reader Comments (11)
But yeah. I lost more friends than I did CD's in my divorce.
It feels junior high, but it's not - it really does hurt. I'm sorry for that.