The Thinking Other Woman

What you should know BEFORE your affair.



Posted by The Thinking Other Woman on July 2, 2022 at 8:20 PM


I last saw my ex-affair partner on here on April 26th. As I told, after I posted “Let’s Just Kiss and Say Goodbye,” he came on in a flurry for a couple of nights, reading that and another one or two of my last two postings back and forth a few times—trying to figure me out, I think—and then stayed up all night April 18-19th, reading posts in order, and then came back and read my first few posts on this blog. He came back one time on the 26th, and that was it.


I think it’s for the best. I’m sad it’s all over with and there will never be any more … but there was never going to be any more anyway, and why drag it out? What’s the point of checking to see if he’s stopped by here for, oh, the rest of my life?? He was never going to speak, and one day I just wouldn’t see him here ever again, and I’d be anxiously scanning here for months on end before I finally decided he was gone, and then I’d be miserable.


And for what? He was never going to speak to me again anyway. And if you’re never going to speak or see a person ever, ever again … good grief. Just cut them off. This way, it’s over NOW, I KNOW it’s over NOW, and that’s it.


It's occurred to me that my life is completely different now than it ever was. Only two things have survived: I have the same job, and I live in the same place. Other than those two things, nothing from my life when my husband was alive and I knew both those men, exists anymore.


Back then I was keen to become a well-known writer, sure that someday, people would know my name and I would quit the day job. I would pay off my debts, have retirement savings, finally and at VERY long last remodel.


Oh, wait … there’s the third thing that’s survived the past, miserable, seven years. My debt. I had rejoiced in the fact that, after living here twenty years this November, I owe less than $20,000 on this old, old condo. I bought some new furniture, had some expensive car repairs done, some jewelry repairs, some plumbing repairs, lent—oops, GAVE—my brother $500, and told myself when all that was paid off—something I had planned to do by the end of the summer—I would devote every last penny to the mortgage and own this place outright within nine months. Then I could do the same with my hospital bills, also twenty years old, and then start on the rest of the student loan.


Unfortunately, I came home twice to find water standing in the laundry room. It’s ruining the floor … such as it is. I thought it was the washing machine leaking. Heh … heh … heh.


Turns out that all the problems I had two years ago with the sink backing up have culminated in a broken pipe under the CONCRETE floor. Oh, and because the upstairs neighbors WILL NOT QUIT putting food and grease down the drain, a horrid-smelling collection of ROTTING FOOD has washed up underneath my bathroom tub. It is full of maggots and most likely the tub will need to be broken up and removed so that this mess can be removed. A huge hole had to be broken into the wall so that this could be discovered and that will need drywall work. The concrete floor in the laundry room will have to be cut into in order to fix the broken pipes. I have NO idea whether or not I have insurance that will cover this.


Of course, I shouldn’t NEED insurance that will cover this, because I am pretty damn sure the break is on the side of the piping it’s the condo association’s responsibility to cover. However, I’m assured by my neighbor they will do everything possible NOT to cover it, and I should expect a big fight. The plumber will need to run a camera down in order to ascertain exactly where the break is, and that’s $500. I have had to delay this work for two weeks, partially because I wanted to pay my credit card down some first and partially because I have been in charge at work the past two weeks because a coworker was on vacation, which meant I had no weekdays off to be home to let the plumbers in. (I’m definitely not letting THIS be done when I’m not home.) Meanwhile, I’m struggling through an infestation of drain flies AND cockroaches courtesy of all this.


So, yeah. The debt survives. I’m fifty-four, living in a broken-down dump highly reminiscent of Section Eight public housing, and I have nothing saved for the future. Still.


What’s gone:


Youth, of course. Sad to say, I can tell I am getting older. I’m fatter than ever. Look up “lipedema” online. My legs are starting to look like that. Not that I ever want to date again, but even if I did, it would have to be a MOST understanding gentleman to look past legs like these. I don’t have the energy or the stamina I used to have. I’m trying to keep up with things like I used to, but frankly, I’m working full time again, it’s stressful, and I’m fed up with it all. I’m never going to have the kind of nice home I lived in as a kid. I don’t mean a palace; I mean the kind of home where the floors and walls were finished and looked whole and decent, a home that doesn’t have BUGS, a home where I don’t walk in and smell the fetid stench of rotting food the instant I open the door.


I’m not sure what my quality of life is going to be like the rest of the time that I live here, but I suspect: not so great. Once I’m too old and sick to work or to care for myself, it’s going to be either a state nursing home on Medicaid, if the RethugliKKKans we are about to vote permanent power in this country don’t repeal Medicaid, Social Security, and all other forms of government assistance, and a cardboard box on the street if they do. So, that won’t be much quality of life, either.


I’ve given up on writing. It’s true that for the very, very fortunate and the very, very talented, something like one screenplay can mean at least a million dollars, which would have paid all the debt and all the remodeling and provide a sizable nest egg; but I don’t have the ideas for something like that and even if I did, I don’t have the luck. I’m fifty-four years old and something like this should have happened twelve years ago at the very latest.

Instead, my last writer’s group told me unequivocally that my last novel SUCKED, and I’ve had to face the fact that I just never had that kind of talent to begin with. The whole dream was a child’s dream about how to get people to like me and love me. Which is stupid, because people who like you or love you only for your success, don’t really like you or love you at all.


I might as well have never dreamed such a dream in the first place.

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Categories: Post-Mortem, Now That It's All Over, Life Lessons, Current Happenings