Lately, love has been the dominant thought running through my mind. This is a big deal. Really. It’s a big deal because for the past six years, since my traumatic divorce, I’ve remained single.
I don’t mean the kind of single that signs up on Tinder. I mean single as in celibate. No dates, no kisses, no one-night distractions, no hugs, no cuddles, no intimacy. Nothing.
As I might have mentioned before, when I took a trip to Paris, I had an Irish roommate in one of the hostels I stayed at who told me his old Irish mother said it takes half the time of the length of the relationship to completely get over it. And don’t you know, I think she might be right.
So here I am. An almost forty-one-year-old divorced mother of three. And I feel somewhat transported back in time, to that younger self who was still optimistic, even in the midst of all the ugliness of life. Still optimistic. That’s the gift of youth I suppose. Life is still ahead of the young.
But now life is not exactly ahead of me anymore. A good portion of it is behind. The first half has come and gone and I am now entering the second half. It’s much different approaching the idea of love in the second half.
A significant portion of my life was shared with a man. And together we did something very significant. We created three human beings together. And though it is probably the most significant thing two people can do together, it was not significant enough to keep the vows from disintegrating. That gives one a reason to pause.
And I have. Paused. For six years. But recently a spark has been lit and I’ve hesitantly taken my finger off of the pause button and nervously but excitedly pushed play.
I have butterflies again, butterflies that have been sleeping for many, many years. I am ready to follow them now and see where they lead me. Maybe, just maybe they will lead back to love.