23 posts tagged “grown up relations”

Tomorrow I leave for Portland.

HAH! You say. YOU don't get to go to Portland, your son's stepmom has H1N1!

Um, actually not.

Apparently the panic was for naught but regular flu and a sinus infection; which she is blessedly (mostly, if not all) over. She was cleared by her doc for kiddos, so kiddos she has. Therefore, I get to go to Portland. Goody! I could use a vacation.

Also, my attorney count is back up to one again. As of the beginning of the year I had four: one for a speeding ticket (dismissed!), one for my will (done!), one for the IEP (done!) and one for dealings with X (um, thought that was done... but I guess not). Unfortunate, yes, but a practical reality. The fact of the matter is I now have attorney's fees in my budget, and I may as well spend it.

Speaking of exhausting but necessary, I have to go to swim practice now.

24 hours until I'm in Portland! W00t!

I have some highfalutin' friends. While sitting in a backyard of North Seattle we drank wine and made tacos and played Quelf, which is awesome. We also (briefly) discussed the "seven year itch". Note that of the attendees, I was the only single lady. Or divorced lady.

Ali is married, has been for 10+ years. Mindi and MK are in the 5-ish range (plus years of engagement/dating). CC is a blushing bride with only a year under her belt -- plus 5 years of cohabited bliss. These are happily married, and in most cases procreative women. They are also all professionals, mostly within analytics (or medicine).

We were discussing the seven year itch; and while I admit mine was long past due (X and I tanked at the 10 year mark or thereabouts) MK noted that every 7 years your nerve cells have regenerated.**

Now, they don't all do this at once, because that would be 1. inefficient and 2. painful. They do it in bits and pieces, like the rest of your body, so you don't notice. But the cycle takes 7 years, so the person you are now (in terms of nerves -- if not nerve) is essentially not the person you were 7 years ago.

Think of the possibilities... please. Because I did and I have and I still can't shake it in the giddy mental-masturbatory sense.

*If* you're willing to posit the following: that human beings possess real live energy, that that has to go somewhere when you die (and people don't know where it goes), that your brain and nervous system is what controls that energy, and that it's the nerve cells regenerating... what does that mean?

1. Is psychological damage healable within 7 years if you are willing to "let it go"?
2. When people say, "people can't change", how is that possible with this news?
3. If it is true that you are essentially a "new/different" person every 7 years (and it's a moving target, so from day to day/week to week/month to month you don't really note it) then wouldn't it make sense to limit contractual relationships between individuals (e.g., marriage) to 7 years?

It's an intriguing thought, to consider that it may be just the luck of the draw that marriages beyond 7 years work out because the "change" affected in those individuals allowed them to be compatible as a couple. It would also provide a convenient culprit for those of us who still have to label themselves as "divorced" on legal paperwork. It is *not* my fault, my/his nerves changed! (Then again, I'm very happy where I am, and can't imagine myself still married; so this is a good thing and I'll gladly take the "Credit" instead of the "Blame").

However, I need to look more into this, because (for example) I had a large-ish surgery that severed a nerve about 9 years ago, and I still can't feel anything in a 3 inch diameter around my navel.

Maybe my stomach doesn't have the nerve :p

** I have no idea if this is true, but it wouldn't surprise me. There is no shortage of things that wouldn't surprise me about the human body. Think about all of the neat things yours has done -- and all of the illogical things -- and you'll see what I mean. For examples of illogical, I encourage you to ponder nipples on a man. For neat, I encourage you to ponder reproduction.

I used to have friends at work. You know, friends. Real friends. The kind you actually hang out with outside of work. Then they got all uppity and wanted lives, and so I am left doing the Office Space thing.

Ok, it's not that bad.

DISCLAIMER: I love my boss. I love my boss' boss. I love my job. I think the people who report to me are the most rad, talented bunch of developers anyone could hope for; I can trust them to do their thing, to troubleshoot and excel, and they can in turn trust me to get other people off their back. I think I am mostly fairly paid, and I think my company does well by me (and I know I am crazy, crazy lucky).

But I miss my friends.

Ali left first  -- the victim of a purgatorial assignment and a dysfunctional (if not crazy intelligent) boss, she took a look at her surroundings and discovered she really, really didn't need this shit. One down, one to go.

Mindi left last -- the victim of a purgatorial assignment and a dysfunctional (if not ... well, anyway) boss, she took a look at her surroundings and discovered she really, really didn't need this shit.

And all that is left is this little Indian.

Last Friday I went out with Work Folks for happy hour. We went to place A, then place B, and some of us to place C, and I ended up on my boss' houseboat, philosophizing into the night because he didn't understand I am italian and can drink more than 2 beers in 2 hours and be fine. That's ok, we're gonna label that as sweet. I had a really good time and could do it again, but I just don't see a manifestation of long term friendship with any of these people, except...

...my boss.

Who wouldn't BE my boss if I hadn't asked for it, and who is a highly respectable fellow and just really cool. This is all very well and good, but he's MY BOSS, and that makes me worry about fraternization.

Fraternization, my little turnips, is when you hang out with someone the Corporate Demi Gods say you shan't. My boss and I run together, we talk movies together, he has invited GH and I out to his boat and I've had him at my parties (well, no, I haven't *had him*, he's been taken until recently and that's a real no-no in the workplace). But back when Ali reported to me (briefly) and before (when it was an informal thing, because our then-boss didn't speak geek in any way, shape or form) I was instructed in avoiding what looked like boss-employee friendships (by my then boss) because it was... uh... bad. The gist (he wasn't quite able to get to the point) is the friendship would give the thought of favoritism, even if the action itself wasn't actually there.

So between that little weirdness and me forgetting my running bra (and therefore not being able to run, and being weird about explaining to my cool running group (of mostly guys) why I couldnt' go run, work's been kinda pink-faced lately...

As I drove into work today I had the luxury of watching people walking along the sidewalk (courtesy of an all way crossing near the metro transit station, downtown Bellevue). I like people watching, it will be a useful skill when I'm Dictatrix.

A reasonably youngish and definitely pretty blond in shorts (not short shorts) came jogging along and a young man, watching her, did the casual eyes up and down thing that men do. (Men do do. We know this.)

The first thing that popped into my head was, "Pig!"

The second thing that popped into my head was, "Why?!?"

That's right. Why is this man a pig? He is not, or at least I don't know him well enough to make that assumption. I was essentially assuming this miscellaneous male person was disgusting-in-the-head because he eyeballed a blonde. This means I'm doubly disgusting, I guess, as I eyeballed them both.

I started to analyze why I jumped to this conclusion (after all, it's a pretty long crossing period). The entire process went something like this: Woman is pretty, man looks her up and down, man and woman depart each other's company without knowing eachother (presumably) or having any visible interaction, the end.

I think the reaction of "Pig" is one of defense: after all, he must be thinking lascivious thoughts, right?

And this is bad because...

Hm.

You see, women are guilty of this too. I know this, because I'm a woman, and I have had lascivious thoughts about random men I didn't know. One was in an elevator one time, and that turned out rather well.

Therefore, lascivious thoughts ping on both sides, and it isn't fair to jump to pigness that way.

Maybe it's because we have the feeling he is judging her? Yes! That's it, he's totally judging her.

He's not saying anything though. He's looking at her, evaluating, and keeping it to himself.

And this is bad because...

Hm.

It's not like he's saying "nice legs" or "are they tired" or "hey would you hump me". He's not opining whether or not Shakespeare was gay, if the weather is hot or cold, or saying anything at all. And I think *here* is the problem.

You see, we are oft told that if we can't say something nice, we shouldn't say it at all. We know he is looking, we know he is evaluating. Perhaps it is because there isn't shining, virginal (or slightly less than virginal) approval in his manner; or because he isn't saying "wow you look nice would you mind stopping running so I can ask your phone number" (because that would *totally* happen); that we jump to this conclusion. We condemn the lad not for his ogling, but for the possibility that his evaluation is less than what we'd want someone to come up with, or what we come up with for ourselves.

Touche. 

A lot of people in my immediate family have drive. (Some in my extended family do, like my cousin Carla; others do not, like her uncles (my cousins)). In my immediate family, though, it's all about mobility, specifically upward mobility.

I am not talking about money (necessarily).

My dad arrived in Los Angeles in 1964 at age 24 (yep, born in 1940, which makes it easy when figuring out how old he is each year). He had about a thousand dollars saved up, spoke limited English, and the equivalent of a 2-year degree from a technical college.

Six years later he married my mother. By that time he stopped working and pursued his master's degree full-time, and had my mom stop working so she could finish her 4-year degree. That's right, he put my mom through college. They had no student loan debt, and when he got his master's degree he went back into the workforce and worked his way up, while building computers (which were used by companies back then, no one had a real PC for at least another 7 years) on the side.

By the time my parents divorced, they had the big house in Westlake, my dad had the titled job, and my mom did, too. My brother and I went to private school (mine was Catholic, my father reasoning he could cure me of religion far easier than he could cure me of a bad education). My parents met my new parents (my eventual step parents) and pursued and were pursued, my Dad married my stepmom and my stepdad moved in with my Mom. My dad sent my stepmom to college (4 years).

We moved, en-masse, to the Seattle area in 1986 so my dad wouldn't have to travel so much. That's right, all 4 parents moved. We went to public school, because the school district was massively better, and were encouraged (to say it lightly) to excel academically. We had behavioral contracts with my father, in which we spelled out our roles and who got what and how. College, for my brother and I, was never a question. I can't imagine the look on their faces had I said I didn't want to go. It was a given, from birth.

I went to BCC for 2 years -- I had got accepted to UC San Diego but my dad did not want me out of state -- and then to UW. My GPA was not academically excellent, or even average; it's a sore spot between my father and I that I didn't take advantage of what he gave to me and that which he had to give to himself (and my mothers). My brother went to UW for 3 weeks and dropped out -- it's not for the faint of heart, or those who have a hard time with 500-person, cattle-call classes. He took a year off and went to Western Washington University, excelled and was happy. (I often wonder if I could've done that...)

I promptly used my shiny new degree (in Zoology) to be an Assistant. Over the next five years, I was a variety of assistants: Visual Presentation Assistant, Contract Manager, Executive Assistant, Office Manager. The pay progressed up as did the stress level, but the actual challenge of the position did not, and the opportunities faded quickly. When you've been the Personal and Executive Assistant to a multimillionaire CEO you've peaked, unless you want to play P&E to a Fortune 500 company CEO (and probably get paid the same with less benefits).

I moved back to Washington, decided that I should look back into computers, and weasled my way into an IT job (eventually). I learned SQL, C++, VB, and other exciting acronyms. I got pregnant. And then I discovered the family drive.

Suddenly I wanted everything, and I wanted that upward mobility. I wanted the nicer house and I wanted the better schools and I wanted the more important job and I wanted the six figure paycheck. I wanted my spouse to be like that too, and... he never got that drive. We upgraded the house (bought my Mom's when she retired) and a year later we divorced. I continued to pursue the corporate ladder (now as a single mom) and here I am, still aiming and strategizing and following that paycheck. I don't have nearly the discipline that my father has, and I know it; but I have the appetite, which makes it a challenge: I want the investments and I want the improvements and I want I want I want, but what I do NOT want is to give up my latte habit (I'm trying -- bought only ONE this whole week).

My brother seems to have shared my dad's discipline: he has made prudent real estate choices and has only recently become romantically entangled, to a happy, sweet, smart girl. He too is climbing that ladder, in a different company (I don't think any one company could handle the two of us, really I don't); I wonder if he thinks of himself as having the family drive, or if it not even something to consider?

The thing is, when you get this, life is a series of goals to progress toward, past, and create. You make a goal and you get it and there really needs to be 8 or 12 more *beyond* it, to keep you going. My house reflects this: last year was the Big Deck Project, this year is some painting and organizing and gardening; next year is mouldings and doors. My career is like this: assistant, developer, manager, program manager, and (hopefully in a year or two) director. My family is like this: get the boy his IEP, get him into the good school, get him into sports he likes, help him craft friendships, make sure he's healthy, etc.

So what happens when you run out of goals? 

I've spent a lot of time pondering relationships.

I don't want to. I have a boychild and a full time job and a house and two dogs and an ailing car, and I really do not need to spend worrying about relationships, specifically romantic ones.

But I do, because a preponderance of what I read out there and see out there circulates around it. Relationship dynamics are certainly more complicated than String Theory, and I find that confusing enough, thank you.

I have been dating GH for 18 months now. If it were a child it would be walking, talking, and I would be earnestly pondering what competitive preschool to put it in. I am only slightly freaked out about a few things:

• We have not argued once.
• I am just as happy now as I was to begin with.
• I am left with this sort of weird, "what next" feeling that disturbs me highly
• Did I mention I am happy?

X and I argued while ENGAGED, and actually before we got engaged. We argued through dating, engagement, marriage, divorce, post-divorce, and I suspect we will argue until one of us is buried and dead (hopefully both, because one without the other would be seriously unpleasant). Then the other will be left upset because there is no one to argue with, unless we've found someone else to vex.

GH and I have *never* argued. Not that we're on our best behavior, or trying not to, it just hasn't happened. I think there is something weird about that; for 10 years I consoled myself with "if you care you argue" and so here I am and I'm thinking: does this mean one of us (or both of us) don't care?

The happiness disturbs me only from the guilt perspective: I shouldn't be happy. No, I shouldn't. I mean honestly, you're supposed to be happy "with sacrifices", but I haven't had that here and it's a bit unnerving. It's like I totally scored and any minute now I'll get wind that he's a mass murderer or amnesiac bigamist or something. Seriously. I'll keep you posted.

But the most disturbing aspect of all of this is the "what next". What next? I don't want to live together -- why buy the cow, etc... -- I don't want to get married (not procreating anymore, no need for fiscal security), where does that leave me? Here I am, I have arrived, relationship-wise, and I can't quite come to terms with it. Modern literature does not help; most "alternative" relationships involve same-sex relationships (barred from progression by law) or fantasy situations in which there is a vampire or a concubine (Dune) or something. But I have no such romantic excuse, I am just disinclined to take part in a legal or social definition of what I'm doing.

There must be something wrong with me.

I had lunch today with Nomi, and we spent a large amount of time bitching about the life of a divorcee and its accoutrements, namely dealing with the X. It's much easier when you don't have kids -- you get yourself a snazzy lawyer and split it all up and don't have to deal ever again; when you have kids you have to deal on a regular and ongoing basis.

Nomi's situation is a little different than mine -- she's actually considering (call it, 15%?) moving back Home. Home is a northern, midwest state that has massive unemployment and ailing family members, but also has younger non-ailing family members that she loves and gets on with well. It also does not have her X. Unless he elects to follow her -- and this is a man who has been unemployed 2 years, so the chances are not good that he'd be able to successfully transition -- she'd be free of one aspect of her personal Hell.

"But", she says, "that means my chances of finding a guy are nil".

The trade off that a girl -- correction, a divorced woman with children -- must make is annoying and a bare fact of life. If you figure most of us gals had our kids in our early 30's, by the time the joys are 18 and in college, we are 48 and way past our expiration date, boob job or otherwise. The fact of the matter is that as it stands we are already handicapped in that we are not 23 and we are not blonde and we are not committment free, ready to take on a new wonderful man and try to change him. No, we have learned from this and do not want to change a man, we want him pre-molded into our specifications and ready to adapt to our lifestyle, kids and ex's included.

"Don't worry", I told her, "every romance novel I ever read that involves a woman moving away from it all means she will be instantly presented with two men: each with his own Dark Secret, each vying for her attention, and her Biggest Quandary will be Whom To Trust..." blah, blah. It's true, almost every romance novel is like the Scooby Doo of valentines: you are presented with two characters you never saw before, one is definitely the Bad Guy and one is Not. Unlike Scooby Doo, it's not always the first one presented. (Test that -- it's true).

I spent the drive home thinking about all of the stuff that is in romance novels, "bodice rippers" if you will, that those of my generation were raised on. First, you learn that no matter what your hair/eye color combination, it is rare and fetching, but mostly only on the heroine, and of course she never realizes her own beauty. Somehow she manages to infer that grey eyes and flaming red hair and a retrousse nose and delicately shaded pink lips are homely and is not aware of anything else until Male Person Number One -- usually a throw-away -- arrives on the scene. Second, you learn that your femininity is something that you Must Not Use, because Only Hussies Use It, and it's supposed to be something you hesitantly show for your true love. So, button up those bodices (except, naturally, when the building is going down in flames/you fall from the carriage/you're kidnapped by unfriendlies and it happens to bust open right when He sees you. He being Male Person Number Two, and one of our Two Contenders).

Third, you learn that while as a woman, you are not to be too smart. You can't solve the problem yourself, you need him to go off (Him is usually Male Person Number Two) to do some researching/whaling/equine or estate management and that presents you with number Three, who will either introduce the problem and/or add to it in some way. Number Three will be diametrically opposite Two, with fair hair if Two has dark, with flashing eyes if Two's are languid, with a casual, easy manner if Two's are harsh and abrupt. (Note to our future heroines: nine times out of ten, the curt abrupt guy with the flashing eyes is actualy the good guy).

Fourth, you learn that it all ties up neatly in the end. The Bad Guy dies or gets religion or converted or maimed permanently. Your unfortunate pregnancy gets hushed up by a quick blessed union to the Good Guy, a quick less-blessed marriage to the Bad Guy before he gets religion/maimed/dead, or (most likely) you fall down the stairs but get to get pregnant again once you're married to Mr. Good Guy. The emotional scarring that Bad Guy dragged you through -- including at least 2 out of 4 ripped bodices -- is healing slowly with the tender minstrations of Good Guy. It's spring/fall/winter/summer and you're just so stoked because that is your favorite season, and here comes the sunrise/sunset (whatever the appropriate metaphor is for the ending... or the new beginning... get it? Get it? uh... yeah).

This sells. This formula sells unbelievably well and my own nanny uses it (intrigue side, and I haven't read her stuff, so I should shut up because maybe hers is awesome and revolutionary; and besides I have tons of bodice rippers in the library). Am I just a little bitter that it is not true? Well, yes. It's about on the same plane that contains my disappointment about the lack of actual transporter machines, my wretched inability to make bread, and the harsh reality that if I don't work out my bodice rips on its own.

Maybe that's why Nomi is convinced she'll not move home. Because it hasn't actually tied up all neatly in the end, and I'm not sure either of our noses can be considered retrousse. 

I liked Buffy the Vampire Slayer, because it was Teen Angst without trivia, it was funny and intelligent and had hidden messages and Willow was awesome and Xander was a twit and Buffy was relentlessly pragmatic and Spike was hot.

That's right. Spike. I was waaaaaaaaaay more into Buffy-Spike than Buffy-Angel, because unlike Angel who had a "grand new beginning" and was all sweet and perfect (except when he got a Happy), Spike had no grand new beginning but still fell for Buffy and had to deal with *that*. I remember today how Spike faced off with Adam or Ambivalent or whatever his name was, the useless human Angel-replacement when our girl went into college, pointing out that the girl liked a little monster in her man.

Yes, I liked "Twilight" too.

The thing is, it is true. Oh, we don't need men to be able to suck the life out of someone (or grant eternal) in order to get us hot, but we do want a man that realizes that laws are only useful when they are useful; who can break speed limits or necks in an emergency. The sort of guy who will not quibble about grabbing the shovel when it is time to bury a dead body (let's not discuss how it got that way). We may not be hot about a guy who will tell us how to solve our problems, but we are *all over* a guy who will help us solve them, our way, if necessary.

This is a bit of a "we love the bad boy". I'm not talking about leather jackets and dark poems and death metal and fast driving, although that is all very nice and attractive; I am talking about a guy who Gets Shit Done. Most vampire-boy-meets-human-girl-and-totally-falls-for-her attraction comes from and to this. What adds icing on that particular cake is the fact that his innate love/attraction/lust (whatever tag works for you) means that he is fighting his very core, that is, he is in love with his potential prey and that the love wins. Yay love! Women find this hot. (You mean, he has to fight what he *is* on a by-the-second basis to be with me? Sweet! I win!)

I can't help but notice, though, how all of these stories have vampire-boy-meets-human-girl while she is only just physically mature; she's 16 or 18 or 22 and hasn't yet purchased Oil of Olay, has very few stretch marks, and her greatest worry is if she will pass her exams tomorrow. She rarely has a mortgage payment, or has a car that breaks down or a washer that dies. What happens when she gets the sort of grey that only twice-monthly visits to the salon takes care of, the sort of skin that requires botox and treatments, the sort of health problems that require a certain level of acceptance of a rubber glove? Where is the movie or book or story that embraces *that* part of the ever-after?

In some books this is taken care of with our Tortured Hero turning our Similarly Tortured Heroine into a vampire; problem solved, right?

Except that for the rest of us, we are destined to live in reality. And I will gladly take a man who will paint my library and window trim and let me drink for the both of us, who accepts my crows' feet and has told me that I have at least 10 years until I get to have my boob job.

Because he still drives fast. 

Closure is a misleading word.

Previously, we discussed closure and how it is for the closed-upon, not the closing. And generally speaking, people never actually get closure. They deal with or come to terms with whatever happened (divorce, loss, job change, etc.) or they don't. Somewhere on the tubes you can find a list of 5 or 7 or 10 items that constitute the healing process and/or grief -- I've seen it somewhere but am not interested in researching it right now -- because the bottom line is you work out your shit or you don't.

I think this is an actual mental choice. You can elect to work through it (therapy, pills, booze, diversion, etc.) and make the shift in perspective required to overcome whatever it is that is bothering you. Someone left your workplace who was cool? You will see them outside of work, and you can make new friends. Got dumped? There are plenty of fish in the sea. Ex-married-person completely trash your credit? That shit lasts 7 years but 7 years is less than what you have left in your life, and there are some stoploss steps you can put in place.

The thing is, it is very difficult to make this choice. It is a lot easier to accept victimization than it is to fight it; because fighting it means you have to be twice as strong: both to fight whatever it is that made you a victim and to fight your instinct to accept that in social circumstances. Let's be honest, having been trodden upon does have its minor profit: people pet and fawn over you, they cluck-cluck at your circumstances. They will allow you to behave in ways that they would not let other people behave -- perhaps you get a little too rowdy at a party or you hit on an old flame (now taken). As the Victim Of Recent Tragedy, you get a sort of free pass that your friends, family, and any society around you (who knows the circumstances) deal because they know Shit Happened To You and You Are Hurting and You Just Need To Work Through It. And those friends and family will go so far as to excuse your behavior to the society that hasn't heard the story, because that is part of the free pass.

Fighting it can make you even MORE unsavory to be around, although you get the same free pass. In fighting it, you may want to talk over how you're fighting it ("I cut her off of all the accounts back"; "I am getting a makeover at the salon"; "I have a new therapist"). You make lots of "I" statements which everyone agrees are good and you focus on the positive and practical. Positive and practical, however, is not as interesting as dirt, drama, and frustration.

The other part of this is the free pass is good for a Victim of RECENT Tragedy. Recent, of course, is entirely subjective and so you will find some members of the Free Pass Society start rescinding the pass 2-3 months before others. Some don't ever rescind it because they mark time geologically.

Sometimes it turns into something like "Muchausen Syndrome Lite": you may have worked through the actual issue at hand, and your free pass is about to leave. While you don't actually put yourself in hospital you find fresh drama in new places and exacerbate and expound on it, looking for that nifty combination (subconsciously, of course) that gets you that free pass back. The one that lets you drink a little too much or come to work late a little too often or be just a little too irresponsible. This usually backfires and means the free pass gets rescinded even quicker, and oftentimes means the pass-giver will be reluctant to bestow it in future.

Right now I have a friend going through an ugly divorce (after 15 years of marriage), another one who divorced nearly 2 years ago (after 4 years of separation), another who divorced 2 years ago after 10 years of marriage, and my own self, who divorced nearly 4 years ago (has it really been that long?). We're all involved with lawyers and it all brings up fresh drama, and depending on which one you talk to it is either readily surmountable (and just a pain in the ass) or a lasting schism in their life that continues to do damage. I can't tell, with the 15-year-one, which of our cases he is going to end up being, though.

It's a Recent thing, you see.  

A friend recently emailed their previous partner with a list of questions they wanted answered. They forwarded me a copy and I read them, absolutely certain that if I had those questions for any of my X's I would not want them answered, and had any of my X's forwarded them to me I would not answer them. I don't have the guts for either, and told them so.

"Doesn't matter", they said. "I just wanted to send it for the closure".

Closure. This became a buzz word in the middle 80's, to represent the need to close off things you don't want to deal with so there isn't any legacy angst in the air. I've noticed that when people ask for closure, it's almost always from someone who already has it or seems to be doing just fine without it. Is this, then, some sort of masochism or other self-flaggelation on the part of the asker? Why do people want closure?

It is a very western nature, I think, to want to wrap things up all neatly and to package people into pidgeonholes. We want our endings happy, or at least complete; we want our bad guys dead and our good guys alive (or living on through some other means, be it ghost/baby/etc.); we want the knight in shining armor to pick up the lass and carry her off into the sunset. The end.

"And the next morning, when the sun rises?" asked Kathleen Turner's character in Jewel of the Nile. "The sun doesn't rise again, that's why it's called a romance!" shrieks her frustrated editor. True enough, the movie ends with the sunset wedding of Turner's character. The end. 

I had my own end about three years back and there still is no closure, not that I can really seek any. As a mom, 50% of my child -- genetic makeup and/or temperament, depending on who you talk to -- is vested in my X. As my X is present in C's life, I still deal with him daily or weekly (depending) and that's fine. There have been a couple of times it looked as though I would have to legally seek some sort of enforced closure, if you will, but that would be naive thinking: court does not close a relationship any more than it starts one.

The relationships I had previous to X required little or nothing in the way of "closure". He just wasn't that in to me, or he was cheating on someone with me (found that out on Valentine's day), or it was a discreet arrangement involving discrete sex. No closure required. The ones I've had since have brought me to this:

You don't need closure if you didn't really have a beginning. You don't need closure if you're not really having an ending, either.

I have "dated" or otherwise involved myself with 2 pretty cool guys between X and GH, and a couple of really un-charming ones. The UC's were dumped (one in Mexico) with no apology and little explanation; there wasn't much of a beginning there so, no ending required. There was no tie, no thread, no consuming need to know about what happened to them once I was no longer part of their Outlook calendar, and I'm certain (barring one who called incessantly for a period) the reverse was true. No beginning == No end.

The Cool Guys, on the other hand, didn't disappear. At all. One kind of faded away for a bit but I could always drop a line and his fascination with my dogs ensures I can pick up the thread when I need to yank it. The other simply transformed from a FWB to a F; the benefits have certainly changed in nature but are still there. No end == no need for closure.

The only time, then, you need closure, is if you want something you care about is ending (or has ended), and you can't do anything for it. You can't insist it continue, you can't reshape it into something new, and you can't drop it remorselessly. You need something to help you let go without pain, and without questions, and without fear, and without anger.  

I haven't experienced death personally. My grandmothers have died and my grandfather has died and my last grandma is on her way out. But I've never been to a funeral and the only dead bodies I've seen were the ones I had to look at for study purposes. I've just watch a friend watch their beloved Uncle die of leukemia, a week from diagnosis, and they didn't have time to prepare or get ready or have their closure. They were, essentially, robbed of it.

Closure is not, then, for the person who left.... they are all for the person left behind. Conventional wisdom is you have your cry (or cries), you drink a bit, you make an awful mess of your friend's bathroom, you make a few questionable choices, and you move on.

The only difference between the closure you seek when a loved one dies and the closure you seek when a relationship ends, is the loved one can't come back and show up at your local hangout, reminding you of what you once had. 

The end.