Saturday, October 23, 2010

Cori Montage

This is a blog I wrote in 2007, two months after my divorce and two months before Eric and I became engaged. Eric and I (with Milo) recently ran into the man this blog is about in the grocery store. He's now married with a daughter. It was a very full circle moment.

April 3, 2007
There's this guy who comes into the tanning salon about oooh every 3-6 months. He comes in and we sit and talk about our lives for like an hour, then he tans, and leaves. I think he likes to patronize me a little, because he is 32 and I am 22, but I think he is a little intrigued with me as well. He has seen me at a few stages in life, and at each stage I am wholly confidant that I am right where I am supposed to be. It must be interesting to know me in such intense snippets.

At 19, I was engaged and completely rational about my decision, and adamant about hiding any sign of being in love, which wasn't difficult. I talked of making a commitment to be apart of a union that was essential to society, and how marriage organized a secure environment in which to raise children and fostered economic stability and companionship for two people... and I believed that love would just come with time. My friend nodded and applauded my objectivity, knowing I was unmovable in my decision. He tanned, and left.

At 20, I was trying hard to feign that newlywed glow that comes from too much sex and too much happiness, having neither. I was secretly concerned with my position but happiness to me was not rational and therefore I was better without it. I talked of the honeymoon, equal division of gender roles in marriage and society, and my plans to transfer schools soon. My friend nodded and applauded my objectivity, knowing I was unmovable in my position. He tanned, and left.

At 21, I was licking my wounds like a dirty stray cat in an alley that's too proud to know when she's beat. I was alone but completely self-righteous about it. I talked of commitment even in abandonment, pitying those with less self discipline and intelligence and my newly evaluated stance on female submission. My friend nodded and applauded my objectivity, knowing I was unmovable in my condition. He tanned, and left.

At 22, I was and flexing my newly unbridled muscles. I was the wild child college student I was expected to be. I talked of broadening horizons, meaningless sex, and studying abroad. I was young, boys were toys, and "the world was mine oyster, which I with sword will open." My friend nodded and applauded my activity, encouraging the progression of my transition. He tanned, and left.

Today, at 22 and 5 months, I was relaxing in the stillness of genuine happiness. I was void of great philosophies or isms to inflict on those around me. I talked, less... because I had nothing to prove. I had hope in love and a plan. I didn't notice if he nodded or applauded, because I was completely content in my cognition. He tanned and before he left he asked:

"What of love? How can you still believe in it? Doesn't that make you feel foolish?"

Which is when the thought came to me: why is disappointment expected to lead to disenchantment? I suppose those are synonyms, so what I should say is why does temporary disappointment expected to lead to permanent disenchantment or the permanent abandonment of whatever it was that disappointed? Is that what growing up is? A gradual loss of hope?

I smiled as I turned back to the computer screen. "Not at all."

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