50 Ways To Leave Your Lover

Paul Simon once said there are 50 ways to leave your lover, but I can’t even think of one.

Even when I try, it’s always half hearted. I guess that’s because I find him more entertaining than both 24 and Grey’s Anatomy combined. I would even include Desperate Housewives on that list, however, that hits far too close to home.

Every day with J-Fed is something new… and I don’t mean that in a good way. So why I stay is beyond me, although some people have their suspicions. I’ve yet to figure out why do couples stay married after considering divorce.

One wise man told me, “You’re a complete masochist. If you opened up a dictionary, there would be your smiling face, waving gleefully, saying, ‘Masochist, yes that’s me!’” It was hard to argue with a statement that brash. Was I a masochist? Was I unnecessarily submitting myself to a life less than ordinary? Or was I simply married to master of manipulation who was so suave he could get out of almost anything with his broad smile and dimpled chin?

Let me explain how J-Fed manages to worm his way back in time and time again. And I’ll precede that statement by saying that although I let him back in the house, I wouldn’t let him back into my black empty heart that he had smashed into a million pieces far too many times. If anybody knew the makings of a successful marriage, it wasn’t me.

A week ago he was living it up at the Splitsvlle Suites. I expected him to come begging for forgiveness, but he kept a poker face the entire time. He maintained a strong front, and a formidable opponent he was. It was a game of chicken, and we were both determined to win.

He knew I was weakening under the pressure – two kids, two dogs, a new job and no nanny. He suspected I was crumbling, and I held out as long as possible. When I spoke to him on the phone, I had to physically hold my tongue in order not to plead for his return. I needed his help, and I needed it bad. My sanity depended on it. Over a seven day period, I gained a whole new respect for single moms.

While I’m sure he was reveling in each and every moment he spent in the Splitsville Suites, it didn’t really fit into his budget, and it was obvious he was missing his girls. Not just his daughters, but his fan club as well. And I’m sure they were missing him too.

Upon his return, I saw them crawling out of the woodwork. The phone rang. People strolled by the house. I thought I saw one woman carrying a plate of fresh-baked cookies for him. Had someone died and made J-Fed mayor of Hysteria Lane? I was just waiting for the memo announcing a homecoming parade in his honor, or a welcome home sign at the very least.

I can only imagine what was said about us behind closed doors. I’m certain he gave his groupies a text message/voicemail play by play of his lonely life of bachelorhood at the hotel, motel. Hell, I’m sure they probably served warm meals to his door. They’d probably even started a trust fund on his behalf.

Every night I go to sleep with the mental image of J-Fed pulling into our driveway waving his Frappuccino bottle like an Oscar statue, quipping to the neighborhood “You love me, you really love me."