On The Move

I'm not sure of anything that's more disconcerting than having your ex-husband and your new boyfriend in the same room together... moving furniture out of the house that you once shared with the former to now share with the latter. It feels a bit like those dreams you have where you're standing in front of a large crowd, only to realize that you're stark naked without a shred of clothing on.

Your heart sinks. Your blood runs cold. You break out into a cold sweat. If that's the way I felt, I can't even fathom how Mr. Ex and J-Fed felt. Whatever emotions they were experiencing, I wasn't privy to them. They trucked along moving beds, shelves and other furniture into the truck. I followed them around quietly, but every bit aware of every move that took place.

It wasn't that I expected them to break out in a screaming match or a fist fight. They were grown men, at least one of them was. Yet, there was still the possibility that J-Fed might utter "stupid bitch" or "crazy woman" under his breath in my presence. And I didn't want Mr. Ex to be in a position where he'd feel like he'd have to defend my honor. Mr. Ex had realized early on that I needed no assistance handling the Fedster, just as he needed no help in his dealings with his ex-wife. It was an unspoken law -- he stayed out of my "shit" with J-Fed and I did the same.

At times, the discourse between Mr. Ex and J-Fed was even amicable, especially when they compared notes about ex-wives. J-Fed was explaining to Mr. Ex about how I would call him after he'd move out regarding "house issues." Mr. Ex could relate as he had also experienced something similar. It was a Kodak moment.

In a way, it was good to get the whole thing out of the way. Mr. Ex wasn't going anywhere and their paths were bound to cross in the years to come.