Love in a Hopeless Place
I found love in a hopeless place. I did. I was a soul-shattered, surly and scared new divorcee with crazy therapy bills and an uncomfortable new haircut. I was not my best self. This was when the universe shoved the most unlikely person in front of me, saying “You two, it’s gonna be magic, I see it.” On paper, it was ridiculous. We had huge gaps in background, experience and, well, age (scandalously young is the new black, didn’t you know?). My people were puzzled. I could not be serious about this rough-around-the-edges Brooklyn kid. His people were equally baffled. Who’s the fancy career lady with white girl voice – is she forty, son?
But you’ve heard the theory that we all come from soul tribes? And you can instantly spot someone from your tribe? That’s how this was. Immediate “me too!” soul recognition. I see you, I get it all, and I want to bake you into a shrinky-dink and carry you around in my neon lacquer clutch. His Prince obsesh almost eclipsed mine. And I could be weird! Men usually want no part of my weird (#weak) — but he expected it, ’cause he was weirder (this is a person with a cat named Adam — for The Counting Crows’ Adam Duritz, who he inexplicably loved as a kid. The cat is female). We wanted nothing more than to get advanced degrees in each other. No agenda but l’amour. Anais Nin said some men filled her gaps while others only emphasized her loneliness; he was a gap-filler (ahem). My angel. It’s like I’d misplaced my “oomph” somewhere in 07, and he’d found it in the back of a cab, dusted it off and dragged it to my doorstep wrapped in a crimson bow.
And yet…only eighth-graders and J. Lo believe you can live on love. We were in such vastly different places, it was never going to be a practical, marriage-and-babies thing. So we were like fuck it, while we have each other let’s go all out! We loved each other in an idealized, unconditionally worshipful kind of way. Tough to sustain in the real world, I know. You kinda need to wake up on a Tuesday in bad pajamas, fight about who’s supposed to change the kitty litter, and then delete his DVR queue just to be shitty.
In the end, it had to end. One day I’ll look back on it through sepia-tined lenses, all wistful eyes and faraway smile, fondly remembering my transformative love affair. But today? It just huuuurts. It hurts. It hurts.
When we were together, my fragrance was Stella by Stella McCartney. I always enjoyed the peony-and-roseness of it all, but he loved it. It was in my hair, on my pillows, on his clothes — for him, it was moi. He smelled it in the air on the train once, and was galled that a Random Subway Girl had stolen my scent swag. I can’t wear it anymore.
My new scent is Gucci’s Gorgeous Gardenia, from the new Flora Collection. I do love it. A sultry-fresh floral spiked with brown sugar and patchouli, the scent smells like spring, sparkling possibilities…the future. It’s truly lovely, perfect for new beginnings. Happy National Fragrance Day, my SYB Babes. Excuse me while I dab — not wipe — the tears. Musn’t muss the mascara.
