I tend to be the emotional sort. I cry over movies, weddings, and basically anything that promises a happy or terribly sad ending. I faithfully renew my Netflix subscription to watch classics with Cary Grant or Sophia Loren with my box of tissues on hand. I am one of the remaining few hopeless romantics. Imagine my surprise when I sat back and watched a few scenes of my own romantic movie. I know it's pointless to dwell on the past but sometimes it's good to sit back and take stock. When I was married, the flush of young love wore off very quickly. We were young, unestablished with a new baby. We both had our quirks that admittedly needed some work if we were going to be a "forever" couple. One of us was willing to work on it, the other not so much. My ex-husband could be my best friend or my worse enemy at times. We never seemed to be able to establish that true sense of we were playing on the same team.
My family saw qualities in my ex that I seemed to blind and willing to overlook. Qualities that I outright defended and excused even if it actually bothered me. I was under the impression that my love would get us through. My sense of being a strong partner would relay to him that this marriage was worth any effort he could make. Little did I know that at times, I was attempting to sell myself on the marriage. Every issue that arose, I told myself that we would make it through. My reality wasn't as romantic as my movies or novels. I cursed myself as the author of this badly written romance novel and started to beg for a rewrite. Oddly enough, the most telling sign that this man wasn't meant to be my forever came about in a most unusual way. One day after a terribly bad argument, he went to kiss me as an attempt at an apology. My eyes stayed open the whole time. My heart knew it was time to move on.
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