some summer, huh? (part 3)
Over the past few years I've attempted to stay away from social media on my birthday, so I can get the thrill of seeing a large pile of well wishes when I finally do check in. Facebook has its negative aspects, to be sure, but when it truly works for good, its wonders to behold -- such as lifting the spirits of a recent divorcé on his 50th birthday.
I celebrated the night before with my father and stepmother; we had a nice steak dinner on the grill, cake and candles, gifts both useful and silly. I'd managed to yet again finagle the opportunity to be performing at the exact time of day when I emerged into the world, this time at the place in Black Rock where I'd played that first new song I'd written the previous summer, and where I played most of the ones I'd written after that. A few friends who don't usually venture out came to see and hear me, and I felt very blessed indeed.
I had been referring the events leading up to my birthday -- moving, divorce, the day itself -- as the Factory Reset. At the halfway point of a century on the planet I was starting over. Everything was back to zero; I was getting a new address, I was gaining new bills, starting new relationships. My previous identity as a husband was gone, and I was setting out into the world as a brand new me. I felt like a single peg in the car at the start of the Game of Life (by Hasbro®). It was scary, but I was eager to get going on wherever I was going to end up.
Of course, much of the mobility depended on whatever the co-op board said, and that Friday I got an e-mail informing me that my application had been rejected, but good luck on my future endeavors.
I immediately made phone calls and sent e-mails. "Why not?" I wanted to know. I was told that they didn't need to explain their reasons, and wouldn't. To the best of my detecting ability gained from years' exposure to the Hardy Boys, I ultimately concluded that they decided I probably couldn't afford to live there (while expenses would have been tight, I was determined to make it work and maintain my stellar credit rating) or they thought that having a divorced couple living on either side of the same complex was weird (so did we, but that's none of their business provided we weren't having screaming matches in the streets) or they simply didn't like the cut of my jib (which is also possible, as some people just plain don't like me; while that's discrimination and profiling I don't have the time or patience for a lawsuit).
Most people agreed that in the long run it was probably best that I live someplace other than a few blocks from my ex-wife, which was probably true, except that I found my place first, and wouldn't it be nice if something went my way for a change? How come she was getting everything she wanted? Couldn't she have some suffering from all this? After all, she started it. I kept my end of the bargain -- for better or for worse, sickness and health, richer or poorer, thou shalt not commit adultery and so forth -- and was seemingly being punished for being such a nice guy.
But the water was under the bridge, and while I was resigning myself to the fact that I was not going to be moving to the place I thought I was going to live, a larger reality dominated -- namely, where the hell was I going to live? Part of the appeal of the co-op in Black Rock was its relative affordability, with mortgage and total expenses running to just over a grand a month, and with my share of the money from the sale of the house, I thought I could make it work, but that didn't matter now. One thought resurfaced: get the hell out of the Northeast. Connecticut has only ever been a place I lived, and at only a few stages of my life was it ever "home". It's an impossible place to live if you can't afford it, and most people can't.
Besides not being ready to undergo a major life change on the scale of uprooting and starting the Factory Reset in a completely new environment -- albeit one with a much lower cost of living -- there really were too many things keeping me here. Familiarity wasn't even the foremost; I had a community, of friends and music. I had the excellent potential of possibility with someone who'd become more than a friend. And I had family; in addition to my dad, my mother and stepfather had just moved to Vermont after 12 years in Colorado. My younger cousin and his family were now in Ridgefield after 12 years in Houston. My sister was firmly settled in Ontario, which meant for the first time since the Clinton administration we were all in the same time zone again. I just needed to find a place to live that a) I could afford and b) wasn't in a crappy neighborhood. I'd built six years of equity in a condo, so I didn't want to go back to renting. Most of the places I saw within 30 miles went for $1200 a month minimum. Meanwhile, all my possessions that weren't in my car or duffle bags were in storage at their own sizable expense.
The process was taking very, very long. The topic of separation had come up nearly two years earlier. I had done everything asked of me and cooperated even with the things I didn't want to do, and there was no end in sight. The Factory Reset seemed designed to start me without a place to live.
[to be continued]
I celebrated the night before with my father and stepmother; we had a nice steak dinner on the grill, cake and candles, gifts both useful and silly. I'd managed to yet again finagle the opportunity to be performing at the exact time of day when I emerged into the world, this time at the place in Black Rock where I'd played that first new song I'd written the previous summer, and where I played most of the ones I'd written after that. A few friends who don't usually venture out came to see and hear me, and I felt very blessed indeed.
I had been referring the events leading up to my birthday -- moving, divorce, the day itself -- as the Factory Reset. At the halfway point of a century on the planet I was starting over. Everything was back to zero; I was getting a new address, I was gaining new bills, starting new relationships. My previous identity as a husband was gone, and I was setting out into the world as a brand new me. I felt like a single peg in the car at the start of the Game of Life (by Hasbro®). It was scary, but I was eager to get going on wherever I was going to end up.
Of course, much of the mobility depended on whatever the co-op board said, and that Friday I got an e-mail informing me that my application had been rejected, but good luck on my future endeavors.
I immediately made phone calls and sent e-mails. "Why not?" I wanted to know. I was told that they didn't need to explain their reasons, and wouldn't. To the best of my detecting ability gained from years' exposure to the Hardy Boys, I ultimately concluded that they decided I probably couldn't afford to live there (while expenses would have been tight, I was determined to make it work and maintain my stellar credit rating) or they thought that having a divorced couple living on either side of the same complex was weird (so did we, but that's none of their business provided we weren't having screaming matches in the streets) or they simply didn't like the cut of my jib (which is also possible, as some people just plain don't like me; while that's discrimination and profiling I don't have the time or patience for a lawsuit).
Most people agreed that in the long run it was probably best that I live someplace other than a few blocks from my ex-wife, which was probably true, except that I found my place first, and wouldn't it be nice if something went my way for a change? How come she was getting everything she wanted? Couldn't she have some suffering from all this? After all, she started it. I kept my end of the bargain -- for better or for worse, sickness and health, richer or poorer, thou shalt not commit adultery and so forth -- and was seemingly being punished for being such a nice guy.
But the water was under the bridge, and while I was resigning myself to the fact that I was not going to be moving to the place I thought I was going to live, a larger reality dominated -- namely, where the hell was I going to live? Part of the appeal of the co-op in Black Rock was its relative affordability, with mortgage and total expenses running to just over a grand a month, and with my share of the money from the sale of the house, I thought I could make it work, but that didn't matter now. One thought resurfaced: get the hell out of the Northeast. Connecticut has only ever been a place I lived, and at only a few stages of my life was it ever "home". It's an impossible place to live if you can't afford it, and most people can't.
Besides not being ready to undergo a major life change on the scale of uprooting and starting the Factory Reset in a completely new environment -- albeit one with a much lower cost of living -- there really were too many things keeping me here. Familiarity wasn't even the foremost; I had a community, of friends and music. I had the excellent potential of possibility with someone who'd become more than a friend. And I had family; in addition to my dad, my mother and stepfather had just moved to Vermont after 12 years in Colorado. My younger cousin and his family were now in Ridgefield after 12 years in Houston. My sister was firmly settled in Ontario, which meant for the first time since the Clinton administration we were all in the same time zone again. I just needed to find a place to live that a) I could afford and b) wasn't in a crappy neighborhood. I'd built six years of equity in a condo, so I didn't want to go back to renting. Most of the places I saw within 30 miles went for $1200 a month minimum. Meanwhile, all my possessions that weren't in my car or duffle bags were in storage at their own sizable expense.
The process was taking very, very long. The topic of separation had come up nearly two years earlier. I had done everything asked of me and cooperated even with the things I didn't want to do, and there was no end in sight. The Factory Reset seemed designed to start me without a place to live.
[to be continued]