Chapter Thirty; How I Lost my Pants

A relationship takes two people. Agreed?

If so then each party is responsible for 50%. Again, agree?

Therefore, when a relationship turns into make war not love, it is pretty much established that each person takes half of the contributing garbage upon departure as a parting gift.

Crap.

I was so hoping I wouldn't have to actually take any responsibility for my divorce.

When I decide to get all egotistical on this topic (and that is often since being an ego maniac is what I do best) I like to apply the following, more user friendly, analogy to my marital demise:

My ex and I together were just like a bad fashion decision.

Let me explain:

I was the loud trendy little gauzy blouse; he was the starched wool-lined trousers. Not only do these two articles of clothing NOT go together at all, they aren't even meant for the same season. Therefore, it makes perfect sense why we are no longer together.

We simply did not match.

It is not scandalous. It is not juicy. It was just one unfortunate attire decision that was bound by a legal contract and lasted 13 years too long.

My ex will work so much better with someone pressed and proper and perfect. I am envisioning maybe a white crisp button down?

And I would obviously make so more sense with someone funky and fringed with fun loving foolishness. I am thinking a pair of deliberately destroyed designer jeans?

See? Using this analogy takes away the blame game and brings it all down to the fact that we are just talking good fashion sense in the end.

I know for a fact that my perfect pair would be most at home rocking out in the front row at a concert or roaring down the interstate on a motorcycle, yet absolutely comfortable milling around Barnes and Noble or working late to meet a project deadline at the office. Fun loving yet responsible and intelligent, versatile yet realistic and goal oriented.

Hey, at this point, I got nothing to lose. Damn right my expectations are higher than a Woodstock hippie. Why not? I'll add "models on the side for Abercrombie" to the list while I'm at it. (Do you have a crystal ball? Exactly. Shut up and let a woman dream.)

But finding that just right jean is, as any woman I know with an ass will attest to, can be the single worst task on the planet. Or more accurately: hell on earth.

I might be in this dressing room for a while.

Nope, not this one. Too tight. Gawd, my thighs looks like Siamese-twin sausages in this pair. You've got to be kidding me, no way. And why are all these things made for women with a six foot inseam? And who even has a six foot inseam? I would have to have an entire chapter devoted to me and my super freaky long legs in the Guinness Book of World Records for these to actually fit. (And no offense to the current super freaky long leg record holder, but there is no way that is possibly attractive.)

Like I said. Hell on earth.

However, the effort I am going to have to put forth to finally undo this fashion fiasco is not as simple as finally locating a complimentary article of clothing. Let's face it, after thirteen years this shirt could probably use a good ironing. And I really should spend some quality time checking out my jewelry drawer, I can't just go throwing on any old bangle with an outfit meant for such a significant occasion (duh, we are talking my life here, people). And really, good grief, this thing reeks. Where’s my Tide with bleach . . .

Therefore, I am going to first smooth out these creases (read some good books on how not to be a divorce' doorknob), spend some time choosing the right accessories (make sure I surround my self with good grounded people) and wash this baby to make sure its fresh and clean (work on the 50% that I contributed to the end of my marriage.)

Believe it or not I am not perfect. (Gasp!) I know. Its shocking to me too.

The truth is I am a control freak to end all control freaks and I should probably address that before I inflict myself on some poor unsuspecting soul. Because if I don't attend to that glaring personality flaw, well then let’s face it. I am going to be running around without any pants on for quite a while.

And I believe that is actually very much illegal.

But once the shirt is back in shape, then and only then, will I get serious about finding my dream jeans.

Because if I do the result will not only be the epitome of chic but more importantly than that it will be the kind of timeless outfit . . .

. . . that never goes out of style.